Lost Hero
by SouthernChickie
Summary: Early season 2.Richie angers an immortal and Duncan pays the price. He's sent to finish his training with Connor, even though he doesn't believe Duncan's really dead.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Not mine. I merely borrow them as a hobby.

Joe looked out of the open office door and into the bar. Richie was sitting alone on one of the stools ignoring the drink in front of him. Joe tried to go back to reading over the legal papers in front of him, to make sure the bar was ready to be licensed before it opened, but he couldn't help looking at the young man slouched at the bar.

"Why don't you let me make you something to eat?" Joe offered coming out.

"I'm not hungry," Richie mumbled around the fingernail he was chewing on.

"I need someone to try out the cheese fries before I put them on the menu."

"When Mac gets here," Richie told him. "He likes that stuff, too."

Joe sighed. "How about some chicken wings?"

"When Mac's here. He'll be hungry."

"You have to eat something."

"I will…when Mac gets here."

"Rich, it's been over five hours," Joe hinted gently.

"So?"

"Come on, you know what that means."

Richie shook his head. "No… he's coming. He'll be here. You just have to give him time."

Joe looked at the worried young man. He knew how he felt; he was friends with Duncan, too. But the truth of the matter was Sladkie was bad news. The meeting time was almost six hours ago. Duncan should have been back before now.

"How about some water, then?" he offered. Richie didn't answer, just switched fingernails. Joe served up the water anyway, along with some scotch for himself. The two sat silently, glancing at the clock every few minutes and waiting.

"He'll be here," Richie assured himself. "Things like this take time."

Joe didn't say anything. As much as he wished the kid was right, he knew that he wasn't. Duncan MacLeod never took this long.

"Richie…" he started gently. "Maybe it's time we…"

"No!" Richie interrupted sharply. "No. There's a reason he's late."

"I know…"

"Maybe it was just a freak Quickening," Richie rambled, looking at Joe hopefully. "Those things can mess you up. You don't know what it's like."

"Neither do you," Joe reminded him before he could stop himself. Damn, he hadn't meant to say that. Sure enough, a guilty flush washed over Richie's face and he turned back to the clock.

"He'll be here."

A few silent minutes later, Richie's whole body tensed. "See!" he exclaimed excitedly, sliding off his stool and going to the door. He stopped short when Amanda walked in, and sat in the nearest stool available, visibly heartbroken.

"What's wrong with him?" Amanda asked. Joe leaned over and whispered about the day's events. "Oh," she replied quietly. "He still…" Joe nodded. Amanda took a breath and went back to Richie. "Come on, Richie, why don't we go somewhere?"

"No!" Richie yanked his arm out of her grasp. "I have to wait for Mac."

"You're going to be waiting a long time." Richie set his jaw and looked away from her. "Come on, we'll go back to my place."

"No! Mac told me to wait for him here." His voice shook in determination.

"You don't have to wait anymore," Amanda told him gently, her own voice betraying her calm.

"No," Richie insisted, shaking his head. "No, don't say that." His voice was half an octave higher than usual.

"Come on, we'll go get some dinner. Joe's treat."

"I don't believe you," he continued, choking up a bit.

Amanda sat next to him. "I think you know it's the truth." Richie took a deep breath, trying to control his nerves. "You know that if he could, MacLeod would have let you know by now. He wouldn't do this to you."

Richie shook his head and sniffed. "It could be anything."

"No, it can't." Amanda stood up and gently helped the now complacent Richie to his feet. "Come on, let's go."

"Where are we going?" Richie asked.

"My place," Joe cut in. "I'll make us all some dinner."

They drove across town to Joe's house and put Richie in the guest room, telling him to relax and they'd call him when dinner was ready. Lost, confused, hurt and scared, Richie obeyed and curled up on the window seat.

Joe and Amanda adjourned to the kitchen. Amanda sat at the breakfast bar, trying to compose herself. As much pain as she was in, she had to push it aside. She now had a young immortal, too unskilled to protect himself, to look after. Joe began searching for something to feed his guests with.

"How long has it been since he's eaten?" Amanda asked, trying to focus her attention.

Joe paused with his head in the freezer. "Probably since this morning. The kid's had a long day." He found a bag of frozen ravioli and put it on the counter, hoping he had spaghetti sauce as well.

"So what happened?"

"I'm not sure." Joe filled up a pot with water and gestured Amanda to move it to the stove for him. "All I know is at about five or so, Mac and Richie show up at the bar. They talk for a few minutes, then MacLeod leaves, gives me a letter and tells me to look after Richie."

"And?"

Joe emptied the sauce in another pot and put it on to simmer. "The challenge has something to do with Richie," he admitted. "I think he was threatened by another immortal and MacLeod insisted on taking the challenge."

Amanda nodded and salted the water. "Richie's under his protection. An immortal can't take a challenge until his teacher decides he's ready. Any challenge issued to Richie automatically defers to MacLeod."

Joe stirred at the sauce. "Poor kid."

"Where's the letter?" she asked.

"In my coat pocket, I didn't want Richie to see it if he didn't have to."

Amanda stood by the counter. Part of her wanted to rush out and read the letter, drink a bottle of wine and cry. But she had other things to deal with right now. Duncan was her dearest friend next to Rebecca, she owed it to him to look after what was most important to him. She helped Joe make dinner, ravioli and garlic bread, leaving Richie the luxury of mourning his loss. When the cooking was done, Amanda went back to fetch the young immortal.

"I'm not hungry," Richie mumbled, looking out the window.

"You have to eat something," she told him. "It's not good for you to skip a meal."

"I don't want to."

"You're upset; you aren't thinking clearly." She sat on the window seat next to him. "Making yourself sick isn't going to help anything."

"What do you care?"

Amanda bit her check. "Of course I care. I thought we were friends."

"Leave me alone."

"Richie, you have to take care of yourself. If you don't eat how are you going to keep your strength up? What if an immortal came? They'd kill you."

"I don't care."

"You're giving up?" Amanda snapped standing up. "After everything MacLeod has done for you, you're just giving up?"

"It's none of your business!"

"The hell it isn't!" she screeched. "Do you have any idea what it would do to him to see you like this? And me just standing by letting you do it?"

"Well, then it's a good thing he can't, now, isn't it?" Richie shot back.

Before she could stop herself, Amanda slapped him. Hard. A bright red hand appeared on his face almost the instant hers moved away. "Don't you ever, ever say that!" she screamed. "He gave his life for you! We all lost him because of you! You owe it to him! You owe it to me! It's not your decision anymore! So you get your ass up and into that kitchen!" She grabbed his shirt and, surprisingly, hoisted him to his feet. "And if you don't get your act together, I'll take your head just like you want!"

Richie stood rooted to the ground, his hand slowly made its way to the stinging cheek. "You hit me…" he said dumbly.

"No less than you deserve!" she shot back.

"Amanda…" Joe said from the doorway, shocked.

"I said go," she sneered at Richie, who couldn't seem to find the muscle control to move. "If you don't get to that table, so help me…" She drew her sword.

Richie took a shaky breath, the blade against his neck. "I'm going," he finally answered in a small voice, edging away from the blade. "I'll eat." He inched his way to the door, pausing to look at Joe, guilt, humiliation and fear in his eyes.

Joe looked at Amanda who stood in the center of the room, sword still drawn, tip on the ground. Her shoulders started shaking and she slumped to the floor crying into her hands. Joe closed the door as she started sobbing, giving her privacy. He turned to join Richie in the kitchen, almost expecting him to be in the same position as the immortal in the bedroom.

Richie was sitting at the table, food on his plate, pushing the sauce around with a piece of bread.

"I really fucked up this time, Joe," he sighed, not looking up. "Everybody wants to kill me."

"Not everybody." Joe put his hand on the back of Richie's neck. "You're both just upset. You need time to figure it all out."

Richie watched Joe carefully sit at the head of the table. "You're not mad at me?" he asked.

"There's nothing you could have done," he said. "If you had gone to face the guy, you would have died. Mac didn't want that. It was his decision. He knew what he was doing."

"But it's my fault he went. The guy challenged me, not Mac."

"But according to Amanda, it was Mac's job to take any challenges you got."

"I'm the one who pissed him off."

"Richie," Joe said patiently, pouring them both a glass of wine. "There is nothing you could have done. Everyone knows that. Amanda is just upset right now. Give her some space. In the mean time, if you need anything…I may not be immortal but I can help."

Richie smiled weakly. "Thanks."

The two sat in amiable silence for the meal, picking at their food more than eating, but unsure of what they would have to do if they stopped. Finally, the food was too cold to even play with and they had to stop.

"I'll clean up," Richie offered.

"I'll help."

Richie cleared the dishes to the sink, while Joe ran the water. Joe washed, Richie dried, then put the dishes where he was directed.

"I think I'm kinda tired," Richie announced before things could get much more uncomfortable.

"You can take the sofa bed in the office," Joe told him. "We'll give Amanda the guest room." He showed Richie to the room at the back of the house. "It used to be the garage," he admitted. "If you get cold, there're extra blankets."

"I'll be fine."

"Do you want help making the bed?"

"I got it."

Joe turned to leave the room.

"Joe?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks… you know…for…for whatever," the teen mumbled awkwardly.

"You're welcome."

Richie went back to making the bed, then stripped down to his boxers and crawled in. He had forgotten how uncomfortable sofa beds were. The bar down the middle made it nearly impossible to get comfortable. So, he lay in bed, his mind wondering. He tried to keep his thoughts off Duncan, but he couldn't do it. He tried to concentrate on the uncomfortable sleeping arrangement, but that was his own fault. If he hadn't gotten Amanda mad, he probably would have gotten a proper bed for the night. And he wouldn't have gotten Amanda mad if he had kept his damn mouth shut. And he would have kept his damn mouth shut if he hadn't been upset. And he wouldn't have been upset if Duncan hadn't died. And Duncan wouldn't have died if Richie hadn't pissed off the guy at the market. And he wouldn't have been there to piss off the guy at the market if he had gone the day before like Duncan had told him. And Richie would have gone the day before like he had been told if he hadn't been desperate to do his laundry. And he wouldn't have been so desperate for clean clothes if he had…

"God!" he groaned sitting up.

This wasn't working. He wiggled his way out of the bed and made his way back into the kitchen. The entire house was quiet. He decided Joe wouldn't mind if he helped himself. He rummaged around in the cabinets until he came across one filled with alcohol. Perfect. He looked through the bottles until he found vodka. Surely that would be strong enough to knock him out for the night.

It smelled horrible.

It tasted even worse.

But, he poured an amount he was sure was more than he needed in a large glass, replaced the bottle and went back into the office. As he sipped at the strong liquid, he explored Joe's desk. There were Watcher files piled in one drawer. He flipped through them as he drank. His vision got too blurry to read a bit faster than he had expected. But he discovered that the stuff got better the more you drank. As quietly as he could, he crept back to the kitchen to retrieve the bottle. He could always give Joe the cash to replace it. A few more drinks and he couldn't stand up anymore. Then he sat and drank some more. And when sitting was too difficult, he lay on his stomach and tried to drink it that way.


	2. Chapter 2

Amanda ventured out of her room late the next morning. She went into the bathroom and made herself look presentable enough before going to find the rest of her housemates. Joe was in the living room reading the morning paper and drinking coffee.

He nodded to the kitchen. "Do you want some breakfast?"

"I'll just make some toast if you don't mind," she said.

"Of course not. Help yourself."

Amanda puttered around in the kitchen, then joined Joe in the living room.

"I'm sorry about last night," she said, looking at Joe over his paper. "I'm sure I made things really uncomfortable around here."

"No offence," Joe said, putting the paper down. "But I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

"I owe you one, too. I should have been here to help you handle him."

"What's to handle? We ate a little, we drank a little, then we went to bed. I wasn't really expecting him to do much. And he didn't."

Amanda nodded. "Did you give him the letter?"

"Not yet. Probably should have…"

"Can I see it?" she asked. Joe gave her an unsure look. "Don't you think we should know what we're getting ourselves into? And if MacLeod left him instructions, he's going to need help carrying them out anyway."

Joe picked up the folded paper sitting on the side table next to him. He had been curious about the letter as well. He had already stopped himself twice before he read it. He handed it to Amanda.

"Richie," she read. "I've told Joe to give you this if I don't return from the challenge. Contact Connor as soon as possible and stay with someone you trust until he can get here. Everything else you'll need is in Tessa's painting."

Joe sighed. "I guess that makes all this official. I'll see what I can do about getting in touch with Connor."

"I'll see what I can find out about Tessa's painting," Amanda agreed. "Where is Richie?"

"Office." Joe jerked his thumb to the door behind him.

Amanda went over to the door and knocked. "Richie, can I come in?" she called. "Richie, it's Amanda. We need to talk." She looked over her shoulder at Joe, who shrugged. "I'm coming in." She opened the door. Richie was sprawled across the bed, dead asleep, in his boxers, snoring softly, and drooling a bit. "So, what did you take?" she asked, moving into the room.

"I'll see if there are any pills missing," Joe volunteered, heading to the medicine cabinet in the hall bathroom where he kept extras of his prescriptions. He took a look, but everything seemed to be in the right place and untouched.

"Found it!" Amanda called from the office. Richie groaned. Joe looked through the door. "How full was this 'til the underage drunk got a hold of it?" she asked, holding up the empty vodka bottle.

"He's going to be out a while," Joe said, torn between the humor and tragedy of the situation. "At least this will give us a chance to get things going. He needs a little time to himself."

Amanda agreed, she had gotten her grieving time last night, and decided to find out what she could about Tessa's painting. Before leaving, she set a plate of saltines and a tall glass of water next to Richie's bed.

"If he wakes up, let him know I took his keys," she told Joe as she prepared to leave. "And tell him I said to stay put."

"Sure thing."

* * *

Amanda's hand shook as she turned the key in the lift to take her up to the apartment. She had tried to steer a bit clear of Duncan while he had been dating Tessa. It was painfully obvious she wasn't welcome. And after she had died, Amanda hadn't ever asked about her. So, she wasn't quite sure how she was going to decide which painting was Tessa's as apposed to any other artist's, but apparently that was where he left his will and instructions.

The loft was its usual neat and tidy self. The dishes were washed, the bed was made. Everything was in its place… but there were no paintings. The walls were bare, save a mirror beside the armoire and the tapestry above the bed. Maybe it was small and framed on the shelves? There was nothing. She even tried a few photos that she saw around the loft. Nothing held any sort of clue. The "painting" was obviously code for something. A very good code. Just like MacLeod, be prepared in case the note fell into the wrong hands somewhere between Joe and Richie. Couldn't let just anyone find out what was to be done in the event of his death.

At a loss for what to do next, Amanda just stood there, in the middle of the loft. There were dishes drying next to the sink. A laundry bag next to the door. A magazine lay open on the couch. A chess game in progress on the coffee table. The light on the answering machine was blinking. She felt tears well up in her eyes and she blinked them back a few times before giving in.

She had lost friends over the years. Some mortal, others immortal. She was never truly prepared to lose a friend, but Duncan. Duncan she had never expected. He was so good. So honorable. So noble. So… MacLeod. She sat down on the couch and clutched at one of the throw pillows. She'd find the son-of-a-bitch who did it. She'd find him. And she'd deal with him.

* * *

Joe thought about taking what he needed out of the office to leave Richie in peace, but the kid was so out of it a nuclear attack wouldn't wake him up for more than half a second. So, Joe just took his seat, switched on the computer and started searching. A quick word to Connor's Watcher told him that he had last been spotted in Russia two weeks ago. Connor was the more elusive of the two MacLeod cousins. Duncan could disappear if he wanted to, but Connor seemed to do it by accident most of the time. A few more calls tracked him to China, but the trail was four days cold.

"It can never be easy…" he sighed and started looking for clues in the data base. Maybe he'd get lucky and pick up a trial of some sort. Someone he was following or being followed by would pop up. It was just a matter of a few key words and little bit of leg work. After a bit of searching he had done all he could do for the time being. He put out the Watcher equivalent of an APB. That was all he could do.

Sometimes he hated being a Watcher. Of course, those sometimes had only been recently, once he had gotten to know immortals personally. It was easier to write "deceased vs. Sladkie" when you only knew the deceased on paper. When they were just objects. Things. Not real. Not human. There were no loved ones left behind back then. No teenagers left to fend for themselves in hopes that a good guy will take them in. Back when they weren't his friends.

"My head hurts…" a slurred voice broke into his thoughts.

"That's what you get," Joe returned.

"Ugh, stop yelling at me," Richie moaned grabbing for a pillow to cover his head.

"You hungry?"

"I'm not in the mood for barfing, thanks."

"Do you want some aspirin?"

"Can I have the whole bottle?"

Joe got up and went into the kitchen to fetch a glass of orange juice then got the aspirin from the medicine cabinet. He shook out twice the recommended dose- Richie wincing with each shake- and handed it all over to the immortal. Richie grunted a thanks and downed the pills and the entire glass of juice.

"Better?"

"Munh." Richie put his arm over his eyes.

"You should probably get up and move around a bit," Joe advised. "Laying there isn't going to help anything."

"What am I supposed to do?"

"You can't just lay there all day."

"Says who?"

"Nature. Richie, there are things you have to do now. There are immortals out there; you don't have the luxury of lying around."

Richie moved his arm and squinted up at Joe. He was right. There was no luxury. It was time to act. Reality was not going to hold off on his account.

"I don't know what I should do," he admitted, slowly sitting up. "I'm just on my own now?"

"This may help." Joe took Duncan's note off the desk and handed it to him. Richie read it over. When he didn't say anything, Joe spoke up. "Amanda and I have already gotten started. I've got all available Watchers on the look out for Connor and Amanda went to go get the instructions from Tessa's painting."

"She's not going to find it," Richie mumbled.

"Code?"

"Kinda."

"What is it really?"

Richie declined to answer and looked expectantly at the door. Amanda had come back.

"I borrowed your keys," she tossed them to him. "And I'd like to know myself."

He sighed and stretched his neck. "It's a trunk. She painted the inside, the lid… from some picture she had found in his stuff. It's where he keeps everything that's real important to him."

"Not that old beat up trunk he's had forever," Amanda questioned.

"Yeah. The one behind the couch."

"There's just blankets and pillows in there," she protested.

"That's what he wanted you to think."

"False bottom," Joe realized.

Before they could discuss any further a phone started ringing.

"Richie…I think your coat is ringing," Amanda said, following the sound.

"I don't have a…" he started as she took Duncan's cell phone out of the inside pocket of his jacket. He had borrowed it the day before and hadn't returned it. "Um…Thanks." He took the persistent device and flipped the mouth piece down. "Hello?"

"Richie? Is th… you?" a voice crackled across the line.

"Yeah… who's this?"

"Con..r…got call…wrong?"

"I can't hear you!" Richie yelled into the phone. "What?"

"Some….wrong?"

"Connor! You have to come home!"

"…York?"

"No! Here! Seacouver! It's Mac!"

"… problem? What hap…"

"HE DIED!" Richie found himself screaming the words his mind refused to comprehend.

"W…at?"

"HE'S DEAD! MAC IS DEAD! HE'S GONE!"

"I…there….end." Connor cracked in response. "Call…later." The connection was cut off.

"Bye…" Richie mumbled before hanging up himself.

"I suppose Connor will be arriving soon," Amanda said after a while.

"Guess so," Richie agreed.


	3. Chapter 3

"So, I suppose we should get you what you need before Connor gets here," Amanda said casually over dinner that evening. "We should get as much done as possible."

"What all is there to do?" Richie asked, picking at his rice.

"Well, I assume he's left his will in that trunk and that's what he wants you to get," she started. "After that, we'll have to see what he wants done."

Richie took a breath and nodded. "I guess I'll go now."

"Do you want company?" Amanda offered.

"You were just there…."

"Exactly. I know how hard it is to be there."

"I think… I think I need to do this alone," Richie decided. "But I need a car, my bike's at the bar."

"You can take my car," Joe offered, gesturing to the keys lying on the counter.

* * *

Richie paused at the alley door, taking a moment to prepare himself. He took a deep breath and opened the door. Everything was how Duncan had left it, just as if he was going to be back in a few hours. Like he had planned. Richie forced himself further into the apartment, past the coat rack and around the corner. His biking magazine was on the couch, left open to a hopeful hint about a present for the upcoming holidays. The dishes from lunch were in the drying rack…

"_I can take him, Mac." _

"_You're no where near ready to take a challenge. Especially not this one."_

"_I can do it."_

"_This isn't up for debate. I'm going to take you to Joe's this afternoon and you'll wait for me there, end of story, end of discussion, not another word."_

Some morbid part of his mind realized he'd always known that his last discussion with Duncan would be an argument. That's all they ever really seemed to do. Argue. Over anything, what to have for dinner, what movie to rent, how well Richie kept up with his training… Tessa said that they were too much alike. That was why they argued so much. People were forever mistaking them for father and son, based solely on the way they behaved around one another. Richie once confessed that he secretly liked it. Tessa smiled at him and assured him that Duncan did, too, after all he never moved to correct the mistake.

"Get in, get out," Richie repeated to himself. It had been his mantra on the drive through town. "Get in, get out."

He moved straight for the trunk behind the couch and opened it up. Tossing the spare pillows and blankets aside, the ones he always used when he stayed the night on the couch, he pried the false bottom open revealing the shallow space hidden beneath it, with all its contents. All the things most important to Duncan. Richie took out a framed picture of himself and Tessa. It had been taken at one of her openings. He didn't remember who had taken it, or how they had come about to have the photograph. He just knew none of them were ones to carry about a camera, and someone else had taken it and sent it to them.

"Sorry, Tess, I screwed up again." He slid the picture into an inside pocket of his jacket. He flipped through the papers he found, insurance papers for the dojo along with the deed to it and the pink slip to the T-bird. There was a scrap of tartan with a broach on it, Richie pocketed that as well, before turning his attention to the sealed envelope that was left. That had to be it. The will. His hand shook as he reached for it, lingering before he could bring himself to touch it or pick it up. He wiped away something on his face, suddenly realizing that a tear had broken free of the control he felt he had over his emotions.

"Get in, get out," he repeated on more time, replacing the items he didn't want back in the trunk and closing the lid. He took one last look around the loft. The longer he looked the more intense the emotions became, until he had to either leave, or let himself break down. But there was no time for that. He had things to handle, a situation to deal with, a life to lead. He left, locking the door behind him, aching to stay and wishing to never return.

After leaving the loft, he couldn't bring himself to return to Joe's. He didn't want to have to deal with the others yet. He wanted to do this part on his own. He pulled into the parking lot behind an old bingo parlor where he and Tessa had hidden out once, when that Horton guy was after Duncan. He took a deep breath and opened the legal sized envelope. Inside was a letter addressed to him, and Duncan's will.

"_Richie-_

_You are nineteen as I write this, and asleep in the next room. I sincerely hope that you are much older by the time you get this letter. I didn't want you to die this young and I promise that I will have done everything in my power to help you live a long life as an immortal. No matter our feelings towards each other before my passing, I want you to know that I love you dearly and you are one of the most important people that have ever been part of my life._

_To you I leave everything, with the exception of a few specific items that I feel truly belong to others. Do with it all as you will. Do not try to think of what I would want you to do, or how I would want you to distribute things. My properties, possessions, and savings are yours. I have left you instructions as to how you access my bank accounts. By this time I will have added you as a beneficiary so you shouldn't have too much trouble._

_Get in touch with Connor, he'll help you. If by some tragedy you aren't done with your training, I've arranged for you to go with him. He trained me, and he'll train you. But, if all goes well that won't be an issue._

_I hope you are the honorable man I know you will become,_

_Duncan MacLeod" _

Richie leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Nineteen and in the next room? Duncan must have written it just after Tessa died. They lived together less than a month after that. It really hadn't been all that long ago, less than a year. He was still a few months away from turning twenty.

Great. Just one more way he'd let his mentor down.

Add that one to the list.

He read the letter over a few more times, then looked through the rest of the papers. For the first time in his life, Richie knew he wasn't going to have to worry about money anytime soon. And soon was a relative term to immortals. He took the picture of himself and Tessa out of his pocket and looked at it, wondering if he had a picture of Duncan anywhere. He'd have to find one.

"I'm not going to let you guys down this time," he vowed. "I'm done screwing everything up."

* * *

Richie sat at the bar, picking at the cheese fries and buffalo wings in front of him. Amanda sat beside him, drinking wine and unable to coax him into eating, but not really trying to anyway. Connor was on his way; his plane had landed, he would arrive at the bar within the hour.

"That bad or that nervous?" Joe asked coming out from the stock room. Richie smiled briefly and continued to sit the ranch dressing with a soggy fry. "Need anything?" Joe asked Amanda.

"Something stronger."

He uncorked a bottle of scotch and sat next to her. "In honor of our soon to arrive guest."

The trio sat in silence, two drinking, one fidgeting, all thinking of the same thing. Simultaneously, Amanda and Richie stiffened and looked to the door. Joe followed their gaze. The building lit up momentarily as the door opened, then closed again. Connor strode across the floor and put a hand on Richie's shoulder, but looked at Joe and Amanda.

"Everything handled?"

"Nearly," Amanda answered. "I can handle it."

Connor switched his gaze to Joe. Silently repeating the question.

"We're done here." He offered Connor a glass.

Connor took it and picked up the plate Richie was playing with. "Come on."

Richie picked up the other plate and his beer and followed Connor to a booth in the darkest corner. Joe started to follow, but Amanda stopped him.

"We are done. He's Connor's worry now."

She stood and went for the door, not looking back, not slowing, putting on her coat and left. No good byes. Immortals didn't like those.

Joe watched the new pair in the corner. Connor was talking, Richie was eating. It was an old sight with a new MacLeod. There was no connection between the two. Richie wasn't really paying attention, his discomfort shifting him into auto pilot. Connor was all business, dominating the conversation, either not waiting for Richie to chime in, or not caring. Richie wasn't in a position to say much of anything, anyway.

That was how immortals operated. If the teacher wasn't able to finish the training themselves, they passed the student on to whomever they chose and the student started over. Richie seemed to have resigned himself to that and didn't fight for his personal freedoms like he had with Duncan.

Connor gestured Joe over. Richie had finished both plates and was scrapping up the left over bits of bacon and cheese with his fingers.

"What needs to be done?" Connor asked.

"Closing the apartment, sorting through things."

"I know what I want," Richie spoke up. "We can sell the rest."

Connor seemed a bit surprised at Richie's response.

"I can take care of the leftovers," Joe volunteered.

"I can be ready in a couple days," Richie continued. "Sooner if I have to. It doesn't take long."

"End of the week, then," Connor decided.

* * *

Charlie was left in control of the dojo, though it now belonged to Richie. The T-bird wasn't up for grabs and was put into storage. Richie wanted it for later. The trunk was shipped to his new address in New York. The rest was left for close friends to go through and take what they wanted.

Only Joe came to see Richie off to New York. His friends were used to him disappearing across the country or the world at a moment's notice. Connor sat going through his day planner, while Joe and Richie sat at a small bakery not far from the gate.

"I'm not so sure about this," Richie admitted sipping at his coffee.

"It's a little late to back out now."

"I had a choice?"

"As much as you ever had," Joe admitted. "Kids your age move away from home all the time, you'll be fine."

"Yeah, but they don't move in with General Standoff MacLeod."

"Okay, so there's some bonding problems."

"Problems? Joe, the guy hates me!"

"He doesn't hate you. He just isn't as… he isn't the type to get overly friendly too quickly. Give him time."

"He hates me," Richie insisted. "He barely talks to me. When he does, he just hands down orders. He basically ignores me. He hates me."

"You'll be fine."

"And what am I going to do in New York? Work at a coffee shop?"

"He has an antique store," Joe shrugged.

Richie rolled his eyes. "Great, I'm gonna hawk old crap again."

"You could always go to school."

"Don't start."

A muffled, garbled voice announced that flight somesuch was about to do something. Richie glanced at Connor, who shook his head, not looking up.

"See he doesn't even look at me."

"He knew you were looking," Joe pointed out reasonably.

"Joe…"

"You can't expect to be the center of everyone's world. Not everyone is as… not everyone is MacLeod." Joe brushed toast crumbs off his shirt.

"I've noticed."

"You'll be fine," he repeated.

"I don't wanna go," Richie nearly whined after a lull in the conversation.

"There's nothing to be scared about."

Richie frowned. "Who said scared?"

"You did," Joe said knowingly.

Richie sighed and sat back in his seat. "You're as bad as Mac…was… Think you know everything. Start handing out assumptions, playing shrink on me all the time."

"No one blames you."

"Don't bring blame into this, please."

Another announcement was made. This time Connor put his day book away and made eye contact with Richie. Richie nodded and stood up, shouldering his backpack.

"Guess this is it."

"You'll do fine, kid."

"I hope you're right." He waved almost dismissively and turned to leave.

"Rich," Joe called after him. Richie turned around, passengers had to swerve to avoid running into him in the busy terminal. "Watch your head, okay?"

Richie smirked, but didn't answer. He fell in line behind Connor, eyes fixed on the floor and got on the plane.


	4. Chapter 4

"We'll have to move thing around a bit, but we'll get you settled," Connor apologized setting up the couch for Richie.

"There's no reason," Richie told him. "I can get my own place. I had an apartment in Washington."

"Not happening. While you're in training, you live here. Besides, you're not getting a job, so you'd never be able to afford it."

"What do you mean I'm not getting a job?"

"Just what I said."

"What in hell am I supposed to do all day?"

"We'll talk about it later."

"But- -"

"Later, for now you're going to relax, take a couple days, then we'll get started." Connor checked to make sure everything was set up then looked at Richie. "This should be everything. I have some things to handle. Help yourself. If you need anything, I'm just downstairs."

Richie frowned. "So what? I just sit here all day? What about- -"

"Later. I have things to do before we get into all that."

"What things?"

"Later." Connor headed for the stairs to go down to the office.

"Why do I have the feeling I'm going to be hearing that a lot?" Richie called after him.

"Because until I'm done, that's all I have to tell you."

Alone, Richie looked around the apartment. It was set up in the top stories of what Richie assumed used to be some sort of warehouse. The main floor was wide open with a sunken living room in the center. One side was the kitchen, the other side an office type space with a desk and a piano. The whole area reminded him of an odd mix of the dojo and the antique store apartments. He began opening doors at random and found a bathroom, two broom closets, what must have been Connor's room and one room locked. Up the metal stairs and around the cat-walk was another bathroom and several storage rooms.

He went back downstairs and looked around the kitchen. There was nothing to snack on, but there was beer, he took one. There were no movies or interesting books in the living room. He lay down on the couch made up as his bed and flipped through the TV channels. Connor didn't have cable, so there was very little to choose from. He settled on a documentary about the destruction of the rainforest. A bulldozer recklessly tore through the trees while wild animals fled for their lives with sappy violin music in the background.

"Fear not little monkey, you are not alone." Richie saluted the screen with his beer bottle. "I know exactly how you feel."

He drifted in and out of fitful sleep until finally the rainforest had been fully torn down and PBS was holding the next show hostage for donations.

"I have no money for you," Richie told the TV. "If I did, I'd order pizza."

"Hungry?" Connor asked, having come back upstairs at some point during Richie's speech. "I can order us a couple pizzas." He got a menu out of a drawer and handed it to Richie. "Tell me what you want."

Suddenly, Richie was starving. He hadn't much felt like eating the past week and it chose to catch up with him now. By the time dinner arrived, two large pies, two salads, and garlic bread, they had set up a couple places on the coffee table. Connor got up while Richie set out the spread. He went to the liquor cabinet and got an old unlabeled bottle out. He uncorked it as he sat next to Richie on the couch.

"Trust me."

Richie took a swig. It burned going down, but it was good. They sat side by side, eating, drinking, not talking, the rest of the night.

* * *

When Richie woke up the next morning, the TV was off, the dinner trash cleared, and he was thankful for his immortal metabolism. He was certain he should have a horrifically blinding headache, but luckily it was only a throbbing nuisance. It distracted him from the strain in his back from sleeping on the couch. He tried stretching and bending to appease his sore muscles, but it only made him dizzy and light headed. He eased back onto the couch and closed his eyes until the nausea wore off.

"Morning."

Richie cracked open an eye at Connor's voice. "Hey."

"Coffee?"

"Please."

"Help yourself, it's in the kitchen."

"Gee, thanks," Richie grumbled, trying to gather the strength to get up.

"You're a big boy, you can do it."

"'preciate it."

Eventually Richie pried himself back off the couch and made his way into the kitchen. He saw Connor was busy on the computer on the other side of the apartment.

"So what's on tap for today?"

Connor looked up. "I told you yesterday. You get a couple days to relax, then we'll get started."

"…'kay."

Richie drank his coffee and rummaged for something to eat. He took his sweet time eating cheese toast and meticulously cleaning after himself. He went through his duffle, laying open behind the couch, and took his doc kit into the bathroom and took a long hot shower.

Richie sat on the couch reading. He wasn't sure what to do with himself. Connor was still at the computer, typing away. It was awkwardly quiet in the apartment. Neither one of them was very comfortable, or confident, in their new situation. They had barely spoken to each other all day. Richie was still grieving and Connor was still working on the details of moving the young immortal across the country and into his life. It had been a long time sine he had trained anyone or shared his home. He knew Richie and Duncan had a strong and rare relationship. He also knew how hard Duncan had to work to get that bond. He hoped Richie had matured over the last year and it wouldn't be so hard for him to get near there.

Both immortals jumped when the elevator started. Richie looked at Connor, who didn't seem too concerned.

"Remind me to get you a key."

"What are you doing home already?" a woman's voice asked as the gate lifted.

"Had a change of plans." Connor nodded in Richie's direction.

The woman leaned over the railing and look down at the teen on the couch. "Oh," she said, almost blankly, then looked back at Connor before heading down.

Richie stood up as she approached him, glad he had opted to dress.

"You're Rachel, right?" he asked, putting out his hand.

"And you're Richie." She shook it.

"Yeah."

"I didn't know you were coming to visit."

"It wasn't planned," Connor told her from his desk. "We had a family emergency."

"How bad is it?"

"Richie's moving in."

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry." She pulled Richie into a hug. "You've had a hard time of it."

"I'm alright," he told her.

"You look tired. Are you sleeping okay?" she eyed the disheveled sheets on the couch, then Connor.

"We're working on it," Connor said looking up from the computer. "It won't kill him."

"Are you hungry, thirsty?" she asked Richie. "He never has anything around here."

"I'm fine."

"You look hungry. Is he feeding you? Do you want me to fix you something? I can order out…"

"Stop fussing over him," Connor said coming up behind Rachel giving her a hug and a peck on the cheek. "He's fine."

"Doesn't look it."

"If it makes you feel better, we'll go get some dinner as soon as I hit a stopping point."

That night they went to dinner and Richie sat awkwardly as Rachel and Connor discussed business.

"What about me?" Richie found himself asking over steaks. "I can help out."

"You have other things to do," Connor assured him. "We'll talk about that later. I want to get you started training first. Get a feel for where you are."

"You should get him a bedroom, first," Rachel told him. "He can't live on the couch."

"That will be taken care of, too."

"What other things will I have to do?" Richie asked.

"We'll talk about it later. I need to make a few arrangements first."

"For what?"

"Later. Tonight you need to get packed for a trip and get some sleep."

"Trip?"

"To gauge where you are and then make you a training schedule."

"Another cabin." Richie turned to his potato before he said anything stupid. He didn't pay attention the rest of the night. Connor and Rachel held up the conversation fine the rest of the night on their own and he was content for now to let them.

* * *

Richie woke up before the sun rose and ate silently with Connor. They took the most expensive taxi ride Richie had ever seen to some sort of resort out of town. It was hidden in the hills, a central estate with private bungalows spread out on the property.

"Not what you were expecting?" Connor asked with a grin. "I'm not as interested in roughing-it as other people."

"Me either." Richie kept looking out the window.

They arrived just before lunch and checked in and set up their cabin, situated at the back of the property. Lunch was served in the dining room in the central estate with the rest of the guests. Connor made small talk with the other people at their table while Richie mechanically ate his salad and chicken.

"His parents just died," he heard Connor explaining quietly. "He just moved in with me. My nephew."

"I'm so sorry, sweetie," an older woman put her hand on his arm.

"Uh, thanks," he fiddled with his soda. He wasn't looking forward to Connor's assessment of his skills. He really hadn't trained much. He knew the basics: don't hold the sharp end, don't let the other guy win. Other than that he had nothing.

Duncan hadn't invested much in Richie's training. They had argued about it a thousand times. Richie worked with Charlie, but it wasn't the same thing. Charlie taught him traditional fencing. Being taught to pull back did him no service against thousand-year-old immortals.

"Come on."

After lunch, Connor gestured Richie to follow him. They headed towards their cabin, but walked past it and into the woods along a nature trail.

"What are we doing?" Richie asked a quarter mile in.

"Walking."

"Walking? No lecture?"

"For what? You do something?"

"No."

"So why would I lecture you?"

Richie shrugged. "Dunno, Mac always did."

"I'm not Duncan. I loved him like a brother. We were close, but we aren't the same person. He had his ways, I have mine."

"Okay."

They walked up hill quietly until they came to a clearing. Connor stood and looked out over the view, Richie laid down in the grass and closed his eyes. He let his mind wander.

"Come here," Connor called him over. Richie got up and stood next to him. "Whatever you're carrying around right now, leave it here. That's done. If you dwell on it and leave it insides it will rot and you will rot with it." He pointed to a tree in the distance. "If you let a spark sit there, it can take out the entire forest."

"Deep."

"I'm serious. Remember that you can remember without letting it fester. It's not all of you. It's part of you, not even most of you." Connor gestured out over the view. "A small part."

Richie didn't say anything, just looked and nodded.

"Leave it here. After this, it's time to move on."

Silence.

"I wanna kill him," Richie said out of nowhere.

"When you're ready," Connor promised.

"It's all my fault. I'm so tired of it being my fault."

"Guilt will only get you killed. We don't have the luxury of feeling guilty. It only rots and hinders you."

"You never feel guilty?"

"Not over things I can't change."

"Even if it's your fault?"

"Can you change what's already happened?"

"No."

"Then you have no reason to feel guilty. You have to let it go."

"But how?" Richie couldn't believe it. He wanted desperately to, but couldn't.

"I leave it here."

"You come here a lot?"

"All the time," he admitted. "I should just buy a cabin."

There was another lengthy pause as Richie thought about what Connor had passed on to him. There wasn't anything he could do to the past. But he could help his future. He had a mission to get revenge for Duncan's death. He couldn't do it without training or guidance. He couldn't do it alone.

"I screw up a lot."

"I can help."

"I don't know what I'm doing."

"No one ever does."

"I'm not ready yet."

"You don't have to be. We can make you ready."

"I don't think I can."

"You have to." Connor stepped back and left Richie to himself. "Dinner's at seven. Do what you want. But take time to let it all go first."

Richie didn't watch him leave. He stood looking out over the vast landscape around him: hills and valleys, trees, lakes, streams, animals dotting the patches of grass. He sat down, crossed his legs and put his hands on his knees, palms up. He concentrated on his breathing. He relaxed his muscles. He thought about the events of the past two weeks, the year, his life. All the guilt he had stored inside him flooded his senses and his emotions ran from rage to despair. In one freeing satisfying scream, Richie let it all out, and listened to it echo around him. Then he got up and left, leaving it all behind him.


	5. Chapter 5

"Here you go." Connor handed a clean shirt to Richie while he cleaned up after their first spar.

"Thanks," Richie mumbled.

"You did well today."

"Oh, yeah, I'm real good at falling on my head and blocking people's fists with my face."

"You have good form. And knowing how to take a fall is important."

"Sure." Richie wiped at a gash on his right arm.

"You struck wide and took too long to recover," Connor told him. "I'll show you how to fix it next time." He took the towel and cleaned up the blood on Richie's back. "Never turn your back."

"Yeah, I know."

"The why'd you do it?"

"I didn't mean to."

"Then don't." With Richie cleaned up and into a new shirt they went out into the living area. "We'll call it a day," Connor decided. "You've had enough."

"I could go another round," Richie insisted, even as he lowered his stiff body onto the couch.

"Just because it can be done, doesn't mean it should be done."

"How am I supposed to learn anything if we just quit?"

Connor smiled and got a couple bottles of water from the minifridge. "You do know you're the student right?"

"Yeah, I know, but I have an objective here. I'm gonna find Sladkie and find out what happened to Mac."

"Richie," Connor sat down beside him. "We know what happened."

"We think we do. There was no body. No witnesses."

"That's not surprising. It happens a lot."

"People go missing all the time," Richie insisted.

"Not like this, and not Duncan," Connor told him gently. "What brought all this on, anyway? I thought we were clear about what was happening here."

"I know why I'm here, but that doesn't mean I believe he's dead." Richie looked Connor directly in the eye as he said: "Until I have proof, I won't believe it."

"Can I ask why?"

"I just have a feeling. I'd know if he was dead. Right now I just… I don't feel it."

"So it's a feeling you don't have that's making you feel this way."

"Yeah." Hearing it like that Richie didn't feel so certain. It sounded pretty stupid.

Neither one spoke for a moment, then: "I don't know what to tell you, Richie. I can't tell you if what you feel is right or wrong. They're your feelings. You're just going to have to learn to work with them until you figure it out yourself."

"You don't believe me," Richie translated.

"I believe that you believe it. But I don't agree with you."

"What are you, a politician?"

"Richie, I don't know what else to tell you. I'm not going to tell you you're wrong."

Richie regarded him seriously for moment, then smirked. "I can't decide if I like you or not."

Connor smiled. "Glad to see you think for yourself."

"I think sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"Yeah, sometimes."

"We'll have to work on that."

* * *

Connor looked over at Richie asleep on the couch. He had passed out watching a baseball game on TV.

"I know he won't like it," he said into the phone. Rachel was on the other line. "But it's important."

"The dean wants to talk to him. This is all probationary."

"You want to take him?"

Rachel laughed. "Not on your life. This is your idea, you can take him."

"Do you really think he's going to take it that badly?" Connor asked.

"Duncan's been trying to convince him for how long?"

"Duncan treated him like a spoiled child. He was having too much fun playing happy families to do what was best."

"He was giving him a childhood."

"He's immortal. It's too late for a childhood."

Rachel sighed into the phone. "Anyway. I just wanted to let you know the letter came. I'll leave you to bond."

"We'll see you in a few days."

* * *

Connor pulled his hand away as Richie began to wake. Most of the blood had been cleared away, but as the fractures in his nose shifted and set themselves fresh blood dripped down. His eyes fluttered and opened. He jumped, startled by Connor leaning over him. He groaned, embarrassed.

"I face-planted, didn't I?"

"Right into a tree. Knocked yourself out."

"Well, as long as it was impressive." Richie popped himself up on his elbows. He was on the ground in the clearing where they had been practicing everyday. Today was the final spar before they went home. Richie had meant to show off all he had learned over the week. Instead he had, if he remembered correctly, tripped over his own two feet and kissed a tree.

"You tried too hard to show off," Connor said as he helped Richie up. "Don't think so much. Your body knows what to do. Relax."

"Relax? With some guy's foot headed for my crotch?"

"Your natural reaction will be to block or duck. Trust your instincts."

Connor squared off Richie's shoulders and spaced his legs apart, putting him into his usual fighting stance.

"Why do you stand like that?"

"I don't," Richie answered slightly confused. He altered the stance minutely and prepared for whatever was about to happen.

"Okay," Connor decided to put it off for now. "Let's go slowly." He attacked with a left hook, waiting for Richie to block. Richie stopped the swing with his right forearm.

"Now, offense."

Richie countered with his left fist square at Connor's chest.

"Too predictable." Connor pushed Richie's hand away and cuffed him in the ear. "Try again." He stepped back and repeated the attack. Once again Richie blocked with his right forearm.

"I don't know what else to do."

"Think."

"You just said not to."

"Relax. Someone takes a swing at you. They're expecting to either hit out or for you to block. What will throw them off most?"

Richie thought. "No contact."

"So what do you do?"

"Duck."

"Exactly." Connor nodded his approval. "Then what?"

"Attack from behind?"

"Why?"

"Cause they're off balance."

"We're their weight?"

Richie though, going through the moves in his head. "Lead food."

"Good." Connor stepped back. "Try again, slow." He swung again. Richie ducked under his arm and he ended up over extended. It was hard to hold to position.

"Now what?" Richie asked from behind him.

"Let's try it this way." Connor stood up. "Attack me, left hook. Real time."

Richie readied himself, shoulders squared, feet apart. Connor stopped him.

"See? That stance. You're wide open with horrible balance. How did you get away with that?"

"I thought a wide stance balanced you out?"

"Not like that." He shook his head. "That's next. Just swing."

Richie prepared, then attacked with a strong left hook. Connor ducked under his arm and came up behind him and pushed him face first into the ground. With Richie stunned he dropped on top of him, his stomach flat against Richie's back, and grabbed Richie's head in one hand, chin in the other.

"Snap. You twist and pull. You'll either break their neck or screw up their back enough that you have time to get your sword and win." He got up waited for Richie to stand. "Now you try."

* * *

"Home." Richie flopped down on the couch, letting his duffle fall next to him on the floor.

"Home." Connor repeated, setting his bag back in his room. "You want dinner?"

"Yes," Richie said without opening his eyes. "Anything that doesn't require effort. I'm too tried for effort."

"You want to go out?" Connor was tired, too. He wasn't very interested in cooking, either.

"Sure."

"You go down and get a taxi, I'll call Rachel."

"Taxi's too much effort, I'll call Rachel."

"You don't know the number."

"I gotta learn it sometime."

Shaking his head, Connor picked up his coat again off the rack. He gave Richie the number and headed down to fight with the tourists for a ride.

Connor and Richie met Rachel at a small Mexican restaurant almost exactly midway between Connor and Rachel's apartments. It wasn't very far to walk, in fact it would have been easier, but it was so cold out, Connor didn't want to deal with the wind, or Richie complaining about it.

"So I see you're still in one piece," Rachel greeted them as they sat down at the table.

"Who?" Richie asked.

"Both of you. I was a bit worried. How did you get on?"

Richie shrugged. "Not bad."

"It went pretty well, I'd say," Connor put in. "He's not nearly as bad as he'd lead you to believe."

"You won't even let me use a sword."

"What good is a weapon in your hands if you can't control those hands?"

"He has a point," Rachel cut in with a smile.

"Not you, too," Richie groaned good-naturedly.

"Me, too."

Over chips and queso they discussed Richie's training, the good, the bad, and the embarrassing. Over fajitas Connor explained the cover story to Rachel and Richie.

"Uncle Russell?"

"Around here, I'm Russell Nash: mild mannered antique dealer and now uncle of one."

"And I'm?"

"Richard Ryan, son of whomever you'd like, moved in after his parents died." Connor took a breath. "To go to college."


	6. Chapter 6

Richie paused, water glass half way to his mouth. "Say what?" he finally asked.

"I enrolled you in a university for the spring. It's all set up. All you have to do is pick your classes."

"You did what?"

"Don't get all excited about this," Connor warned him in a hushed, harsh tone. "You're going to make a scene."

"I'm not going to make anything. Especially not a class schedule."

"Richie," Rachel cut in. "He didn't mean anything by it. There's no reason to react like this. He did it for all the right reasons."

"Right reasons?" Richie repeated thought clinched teeth. "You did it behind my back. You knew I didn't want to go to college and so you're trying to corner me into it!"

"I did it because it's what's best for you," Connor told him. "You need to do this."

Slowly Richie shook his head, his eyes narrow and burning with anger, jaw clinched tightly. "Mac would'a never done this he-"

"Duncan spoiled you as his son. You're my student first," Connor cut him off.

"I didn't ask to be that, either," he shot back bitterly. "You're supposed to teach me how to fight, so I can go hunt down and kill that son of a bitch. You don't want to do that--fine! I'm 19 years old--you don't own me. I'll just go find someone who will."

"That's not your choice. Duncan wanted me to train you. You can either honor his memory, or strike out on your own. But this is what he wanted."

"That's bullshit. If Mac wanted me to go to school he would have said so, so don't go guilt-tripping me. It won't work"

"He never asked you? He never offered to pay?" Connor asked knowingly.

"That's completely different. All I had to do was so no once and he let it go. He got it. You think I wanted another handout? Something I hadn't earned? He understood I wanted to do it on my own. I was going to go to college when I was good and ready. And Mac was fine with letting me wait, letting me do it my way."

"You don't have time to wait now. You want to go after Sladkie? You have to know more than how to swing a blade. You need to be ready to go on your own. Stand on your own two feet. This is how you're going to do that"

"Oh and I'll bet YOUR teacher shipped you down to oxford before he let you face Kurgan--yeah, Mac told me about that. Since when does a college education make someone a better fighter?"

"This is a different time. And this discussion is over." Connor pointedly looked away and turned his attention to the food.

Richie couldn't let it drop. "And you think MAC treated me like a kid?"

"Richie, please," Rachel cut it.

"You get what I'm saying, don't you?" Richie asked her.

She put her hands up in surrender. "I'm staying out of it."

"I never said you weren't a kid," Connor retorted, ignoring the aside.

"Connor, leave him alone," Rachel warned.

"No, you're right," Richie leapt back into the ring. "You said you weren't Mac, and you know something? You're right about that."

"That's why I said it."

"Please, you two. We can talk about this later. Not now, not in public."

"Look," Connor ignored her and focused on Richie. "A few hours of class a day isn't going to hurt you. It'll be a lot more beneficial than annoying."

"No, you look!" Richie shot back.

"This isn't your decision, it's mine."

"Says who?"

"I don't have to ask permission."

"This discussion is over." Richie imitated. He pushed up from his seat and stalked out of the restaurant. Surprisingly, the heated debate had not attracted the attention of anyone but the wait staff.

Rachel forced a smile over her iced tea. "That went well."

"He'll be back." Connor seemed unfazed by the outburst of emotion.

"What makes you so sure? How do you know he's not going straight for JFK?"

"He has no wallet and no idea where he is." He calmly ate his dinner.

* * *

He felt like an idiot, storming off like he did. But he knew it was about to get a lot uglier. Richie knew his temper well enough to know that all control had been minutes, even seconds from crumbling. So really, it had been an act of maturity to remove himself from the situation. Yeah, that was it. It wasn't childish at all.

He shook his head at his own pathetic face-saving logic and followed the herd of New Yorkers and tourists across the street. What was he kidding? He had acted like a child. A toddler that pouted and threw a fit when he didn't get his way. What was a little bit of schooling going to hurt anyway?

But it was the principle of the matter. Connor hadn't even asked him about it, made him fill out the application, or anything. He'd been shanghaied. Connor chose the school, applied, accepted and paid for him. All behind his back.

He'd meant well.

So why did he do it all in secret?

Probably because he knew how he'd react.

At least he hadn't let Connor down entirely. He had lived down to expectations. As usual, he was a disappointment and a let down.

Sighing and shaking his head again, Richie kept walking, trying to build up the nerve to go back. But he had meant what he said. He was planning on going to college when he was good ready. It wasn't as if he was running out of time. Or youth. He just wasn't ready yet. Especially now that he had a mission. How was he supposed to train if he had to write papers and do presentations? What good was a degree in a sword fight? He could read, write, and 'rithmetic later. Who was Connor anyway? What gave him the right to make those demands? To just assume he could order him around?

Richie fumed, his anger renewed, and stalked around the city, bumping into people, shouldering them out of his way. Tourists thought they were getting the true New York experience: New Yorkers thought he was rude. A couple tough guys tried to pick a fight with him.

"Watch it, bitch," a man roughly his age grabbed him by the shoulder and turned him around.

"Whatever." Richie turned back around.

"I'm talking to you," the man grabbed at his arm again.

"Fine, my bad." Richie brushed him off again.

"I don't think you realize who you're dealing with."

Groaning, Richie turned around. "Seriously? Are you really trying to do this?"

"Yeah, man. You don't just walk into me and then run off like that. You pay your respects. This is my turf."

"You're turf?" Richie repeated. He could remember when he used to talk like that. Before he'd even met Duncan. "It's a public sidewalk, asshole."

The man and his buddy looked at each other with a twinkle in their eyes. "You must be new around here," the second guy said with a yellow smile.

"Never set foot here in my life," Richie told him.

"Then let me explain something to you, man. This here is our turf. No one walks here without our say so."

"Every single person on this street has permission?"

"It's not express," the first guy admitted. "But they all show the proper respect." He smiled at Richie warmly, two gold teeth glinting from the side of his mouth.

"Uh-huh. Well, I'm not really in the mood. Maybe I'll come by later." Richie turned to go.

The wannabe gangster grabbed his arm, yet again, pulling him around and swinging a fist.

Without hesitation, Richie ducked under the blow and popped up behind him, pushing the thug to the ground. He itched for a good all out brawl. But there was no way those two were going to last more than five minutes.

"Forget it." He shrugged them off and left.

"Yeah, you had better run, homey!" the second thug called after him. "We don't go easy the second time!"

Richie ignored them.

After another few blocks, turns, and alleys he was calmed down enough again to think clearly. He sat on a sidewalk bench and took a deep breath. His head was clearer now, most of his aggression spent on the two thugs. It was scary how close he had come to becoming one of them. The exact same make a model, west coast edition. Less than two years with Duncan separated him from the punks he just left. Duncan had given him the chance that all people in his position so desperately needed.

A pit opened in his stomach at the thought of his former mentor. Duncan had given everything for him. He saw something in Richie that others hadn't seen or refused to see. He'd taken a chance on the young thief, smartass, loudmouth, that had laughed in his face and disrespected him without a second thought. He saw who Richie really was: someone desperate for a chance out, a rescue rope thrown his way. He took a great chance on Richie. He trusted him.

Richie owed him the same trust.

If Duncan trusted the decisions Connor would make, so would he. No matter how much he hated them. Besides, if Richie was going to beat Sladkie he needed to learn the best moves and be in perfect condition. If anyone was better than Duncan, it had to be Connor, the man who taught him.

Richie made up his mind and reached a resolve. He was going to keep his head down, his mouth shut, and bide his time. Connor had already promised him Sladkie's head. Now all he needed was the ability to take it. He had to go back. He had to go home.

He got up and started back. Abruptly, he stopped. Nothing looked familiar, everything looked familiar. Everything looked the same and completely foreign. He wasn't even sure which vague direction he had come from.

Richie came to the sudden realization that he had to call "uncle"… literally. He was lost.

"God damn figures."


	7. Chapter 7

Richie was sitting on the bench, hunched into his jacket when he felt another immortal approaching. He looked up and spotted Connor rounding the corner, heading to the rescue. Richie got up and met him half way up the block.

"Sorry," he mumbled, falling in step as Connor turned and headed back.

"D train," Connor told him. "West 24th Street station. It's right across the street from me… us," he corrected. "If you can get on a train, you can get home. Worst case, take a taxi to Broadway and Wallstreet."

Richie nodded.

"We'll get you a few extra tokens tonight. If they ever get the card system up and running we'll get you one of those. But for now always keep a couple extra tokens in your wallet."

Richie nodded again.

"It's just like the trains in Seacouver and Paris."

They made their way into the nearest station and as promised, Connor slipped Richie a few extra tokens. As they waited for the train, Connor leaned over and whispered in Richie's ear:

"You can take your tail out from between your legs."

Richie looked up at him, surprised to see the smile on his new teacher's face.

"No one has a rolled up newspaper."

* * *

Richie woke up on the couch in a blur of alcohol and something he couldn't recognize.

"Why is he still on the couch?" he heard Rachel asking.

"I wasn't going to spring that on him after last night," Connor answered. "He can't take that right now."

"Can't take what?" Richie asked, trying to get his eyes to focus.

"Don't worry about it," Connor told him.

"Worry about what?"

"So, I'm noticing you don't take direction well."

"Took you this long?"

"You hungry?" Connor distracted him.

"At least you figured that part out." Richie sat up and stretched, closing his eyes against the sun light.

"You have to stop getting him drunk," Rachel complained, closing the shades. "You're making him an alcoholic."

"It gets him to sleep." Connor moved to the kitchen and Richie followed. "Eat something light, we have things to do today."

"Is there ever going to be a day where I get to pick what I do, or, I dunno, find out what you've decided before you drag me out the door?"

"Maybe later. For now, I'm just getting you started out."

Richie snacked on an apple from the fruit bowl and leaned against the counter. "So what's this thing I can't take?" he asked.

"Nothing," Connor told him.

"Uh-huh. If it's nothing, why the big secret?"

"Now I understand why you drove Duncan nuts," the older immortal mumbled as he put on water for oatmeal.

Richie got quiet for a moment, then shrugged. "You MacLeods think you invented stubborn or something."

"I'll show you," Rachel said coming up behind Richie. "It's upstairs. It's no big deal; I don't know what Connor is going on about."

Richie followed Rachel upstairs to the spare rooms that had been used for storage. She opened one door, revealing what was now a bed room, small and bare with only a bed and a side table, but a real bedroom. And next door had been cleaned out.

"I thought you could use your own office space," Rachel told him. "We'll get the furniture for it today."

"I don't really need much. Maybe a desk, chair…TV or something."

"We'll take care of it. What do you say you and I go shopping today and leave the antiques at home?" Rachel offered. "If we're family now, I suppose we should know each other better. I'll show you around, take you to lunch, we can talk."

* * *

With his new credit card attached to Connor's account activated, Richie went out for a day with Rachel. Connor had seemed more than happy to let Rachel take over babysitting duty for the day and left Richie with the instructions of "If she says you need it, you need it."

They started out at the mall and Rachel loaded Richie down with arms full of clothes.

"That stuff you brought will only work for part of the year. We actually have seasons here," she told him.

"Uh-huh." Richie knew the drill. He had gone shopping with Tessa under other such flimsy excuses. Duncan had said shopping was the female equivalent to going to bars or basketball games. "How exactly are we planning on getting all this back?" Richie asked, dumping the clothes on the check out counter, glad Rachel had no intention of following him into a dressing room to second guess his judgment as to weather something fit or not.

"We can carry this. It's not too much."

The cashier quoted the total and Richie handed over the credit card. "I'm blaming you for the expenses," he told Rachel. "I'm not gonna get in trouble to protect you."

"This?" Rachel waved her hand dismissively. "All necessities. Besides, this way you won't have to buy clothes for a while."

Somehow four pairs of pants, two pairs of jeans, twelve shirts, and three sweaters all fit neatly into three relatively light weight bags. Rachel took one, Richie the remaining two. The next stop was a home furnishings store just around the block.

"Pick out what you want," Rachel told him, gesturing to the store at large. She followed as Richie wound his way around until he found the office furniture.

"I think I furnished my whole apartment for this much back home," he gawked at a price tag on an oak desk.

"What about this one?" Rachel offered, standing next to a Pedestal desk.

"That's more than the other one."

"It comes with the shelves and the hutch, too."

"Where am I supposed to put all that? What am I supposed to put in all that?" He pointed out reasonably. "I need a flat surface with a drawer or two." He glanced around the group of desks. He spotted one in the back corner. "Like that."

Rachel looked at it. It was nothing but a piece of wood laid across two other pieces of wood. "Where are you going to put your computer?" she asked. "You don't have room to write and put a monitor up."

"Computer?"

"Every college student needs a computer."

"Can I help you?" a sales assistant approached them.

Just as Richie was about to say "no", Rachel said: "Yes. My nephew just got into college and we're looking to update his work space."

Richie learned very quickly that his presence at the store was a mere formality. Within a matter of minutes everything had been decided, ordered, and about to be shipped if he would just give over the credit card.

"I hope deal old Uncle Russell isn't the violent type," he said as they left. "Three thousand dollars for desk?"

"And a book case and filing cabinet."

"I don't need all that."

"I believe the agreement was if I said you needed it, you did." She kept walking down the sidewalk.

"Well, I have a whole new wardrobe and the most expensive piece of compressed sawdust in existence. What else do I need?" he asked following her.

"The computer, of course, a TV, maybe a VCR, I'm sure you and Connor don't share the same tastes, a stereo…"

Richie gawked at the list of electronics.

"And of course some sheets, a bedspread, alarm clock, posters, paint, or whatever you want to do to the walls, a phone…" she continued.

"Why don't I get a couch and refrigerator and just have my own bachelor pad?"

"That would be a great idea," Rachel agreed. "I wonder if Connor would let us knock out that wall and make you a loft?"

"I was kidding!"

She smiled. "I know, but it's worth asking."

"Do I need anything else?" he asked, slightly intrigued at the idea of getting his own loft above the…well, loft.

"School supplies… and we should probably get you some shoes…but for now, you need lunch."

She took him to one her favorite pizzerias which happened to be a short walk away from the furnisher store. It was a prime example of the stereotype of New York City Richie had grown up watching on TV. One side of the space was dominated by a high steel counter in front of a brick oven with flames licking the roof. The rest of the restaurant was made up of crowded tables with white and red checker clothes and pizza stands in the middle to help with the space crunch. The walls were decorated with black and white pictures of the owner's family in Italy and the generation that had grown up in the states all working behind the very pizza counter they had ordered at.

"So this is the famous Richie specialty," Rachel said, looking at the pie on the rack over the napkin dispenser. It was piled with extra cheese, pepperoni, sausage, peppers, olives, and garlic.

"I'll eat anything on a crust. We could'a got something different," he told her.

"No, I've been hearing about this for ages now. I hear this is the very recipe that got Duncan eating pizza again."

Richie smirked. "Well, between me and Tess he didn't have much of a choice. She was almost as addicted as I am."

"I'm not even sure this thing is going to hold up." She took a slice and it drooped with the weight of the toppings.

"Guess we make it thicker in Washington."

"So, I have to ask," Rachel hedged, wiping sauce of her chin. "Are you okay with school now?"

"Hell no. But when you get no say, you get no say, right?"

"Is that really how this works? He's older so he's in charge point blank?"

Richie smiled thinly. "It's an ancient tradition as old as we are. Some people go for it, some people don't, and unfortunately, I have to change with the tides."

"You know, when I was your age, I though being immortal would be the best way to live, all the adventure and romance."

"So did I, til it happened."

"I can't imagine how hard it is."

"It's not even worth the cool stuff," Richie confided in her. "All I've ever really wanted is a normal life, and now there's no way I'll ever get one. People dying, disappearing…"

Rachel put her slice down and thought for a moment before speaking. "You really don't think Duncan is dead?"

Richie stared at the pizza and shook his head. "No, I don't."

"Do you think he's in trouble?"

"I think that's the only reason he'd leave, if he had no other choice."

Rachel didn't respond, Richie's eyes were unfocused and his attention was lost in thought. After a while, she gently placed her hand on his arm, getting his attention.

"Do you want to get mad about school again?"


	8. Chapter 8

Richie sat uncomfortably in front of the college dean as he looked over his transcripts.

"Can I be frank with you?" Father Albert asked, putting the folder down and folding his hands over it.

"Okay…" Richie hedged, already not liking where this was going. He was in trouble and this was his first time stepping foot on the university campus.

"We both know your grades are horrible. And we both know that it's at least partly to blame from you moving so much."

"Went to every high school in the district. Some of the twice," Richie agreed.

"But both your ACT and SAT scores are amazing."

"I test well," Richie shrugged.

"You and I both know the only reason you've been accepted here is because of your potential and special circumstances."

"I don't think we both know that. What special circumstances?"

Father Albert smiled. "The brothers here have been trusted with the secret of your kind since long before your "Uncle Russell" was Connor MacLeod."

* * *

Connor looked up from his desk in the antique store when Richie came in laden down with shopping bags and a frown.

"How'd it go?" Connor asked.

"You made me a raw deal," Richie accused. "Take a few classes and get whatever degree I want?"

"That was the deal."

"You left out mandatory volunteer hours and tutoring. Rudimentary math?" Richie questioned. "I don't even get credit for it."

"The college gave you that deal, not me."

"No, they gave you that deal and you accepted for me."

"Well, either way," Connor shrugged. "Go shopping?"

"Two hundred bucks worth of crap I have do study before school even starts."

"Well, you can start tonight. Tomorrow we can start on your room."

Richie dropped his bags behind the desk fully aware he had no room to negotiate his academic situation. "The stuff come in?"

"Yes. But if you want to knock out that wall, we should just leave it where it is."

"The wall?" Richie hadn't expected that plan to go past an evening of plotting with Rachel. He hadn't bothered to ask about it. She must have for him.

"And I was thinking, none of those walls are load bearing, so we could push back the left wall and enclose the cat walk area to give you a few square feet more."

"You want to remodel the whole thing?"

"It'd be good training for you. Weights, targets, muscle control, balance, patience. And get some aggression out."

"You want to remodel it? You and me?"

"Yes, us. We can do it in a week or two. We'll knock out the walls and rebuild them at the rail. Maybe put in an intercom. I'm betting on less than two weeks."

"Uh… okay." Richie wasn't quite sure what to say. Even with all the complaining, attitude and lack of progress in training, Connor was willing to do anything to make him feel at home.

"You'd be back on the couch, but after that you'd be set."

"Okay. Let's do it."

* * *

In a matter of days, Connor had Richie set up with a routine that not only got the construction project underway, but had him training cardio, muscle building, and agility. Richie was upstairs taking out the last of the studs with a sledge hammer with the radio blasting the local alternative station when the elevator started up and a woman came into the apartment. She watched him for a minute as he obliviously continued his project before going down to the main living area where Connor was at the computer listening to his own music with head phones.

Connor looked up when she leaned over the desk and kissed him.

"Meredith, you're back." He stood up and kissed her again. "How was Hong Kong?"

She flipped her brown hair over her shoulder and sat on the desk. "Same old same old. Doing some remodeling?" She nodded her head toward Richie upstairs.

"Oh, I haven't had a chance to talk to you and fill you in." He guided her toward the stairs. "I had a family emergency while you were gone. Some family passed away."

"Oh, Russell, I'm so sorry. Who was it?"

"A very close cousin. We spent a lot of time together over the years; he was almost a brother to me." They made it upstairs and Connor turned off Richie's radio. "Meredith, this is my nephew, Richie."

Richie looked up mid-swing and nearly lost his balance as the weight of the hammer kept going. He recovered with slight grace and put it down, wiping the sweat off his face with a towel.

"What?" he asked.

"Richie, this is Meredith, my girlfriend. Meredith, this is Richie."

"Hi." They shook hands.

"We're making the storage a bedroom so he can have some privacy."

"I'm sorry about your father," Meredith said.

"Oh, uh, thanks. It's nice to meet you."

"This looks like quite the project," she commented, looking around the almost fully deconstructed room. It was little more than a brick wall and some framework.

"It passes the time." Richie adjusted the bandanna covering his hair.

"Do you have a plan for it?" she asked.

"Meredith is a designer," Connor explained. "We met when she was shopping for a client."

"Oh, cool. Um, I don't really have an elaborate plan. I have some furniture, so I figure I'll put that in here when I finish the walls," Richie said. "Other than that…"

Meredith smiled and slid her arm through Connors. "That is a good start. I'm anxious to see what you do with it."

"Well, you're welcome to come check it out. Me and Uncle Russell figure we'll have it done in a week or so."

"I wish my contractors worked as quickly as you two."

Richie perked up with an idea. "If you ever need some odd jobs done for your clients," he offered. "You know, something you don't want a contractor for, or don't want to pay a contractor for…I'm pretty good at this stuff. I do electric and pluming, too."

"But he will be busy with school," Connor put in.

"A little work on the weekends won't hurt," Richie insisted.

"Not while you're under my roof."

Meredith laughed uneasily, sensing an impending argument. "Well, Russell," she cut in. "I suppose I should leave the men to their work. Maybe I can come around tomorrow and we can do dinner?"

"I thought you'd want to go out tonight?" Connor asked. "Richie will be fine. He deserves a night to himself. Go get your purse, and I'll meet you in a minute."

"As long as I'm not intruding…"

"Don't be silly. Just give us a quick minute."

When Meredith was out of ear shot Connor stepped closer to Richie. "Sorry I didn't mention her earlier."

"What do I care who you're dating?" Richie heaved the sledge hammer up again, ready to finish off the wall.

"I'll leave you some money for dinner. You can order in."

"I'll be fine,_Uncle Russell._"

"You know where the guns are. If one of us shows up uninvited, shoot first and we'll sort it out later. You have my cellular number."

"I'm fine. I'm just gonna tear down a wall and watch some TV." He swung for a chunk of drywall. "I'm not gonna cause any trouble."

"It's not you I'm worried about." Connor worried a bit leaving Richie on his own. The young immortal had not been alone much the strange city since he had walked out of the restaurant almost two weeks ago, with the exception of his trip to campus for his meeting with the dean. He had never been left in the loft alone, either. Not at night. Other immortals tended to be in New York on vacation or business with no intention of starting a fight, but if somehow they found out a young immortal of limited skill was home alone there was no telling who might try to take advantage of it.

"I'm a big boy with a sword and a gun, Connor. I know the rules, I know the closest Holy Ground, and I have a quarter to call you from a pay phone. Okay?"

"Remind me to get you your own cell phone." Connor turned to meet Meredith by the elevator. "I won't be too late!" He called before they left.

"Feel free to be anyway!" Richie yelled before turning his music back on.

* * *

Full from a smorgasbord of leftovers, clean from a forty-five minute scalding shower and tired from a day of destruction, Richie lay down his bed, yet again the couch. The Nicks game was playing on the TV, but Richie found it hard to concentrate on a game being played by a team he wasn't very familiar with. He made a mental note to check the sports section to see how the Sharks were faring in the league so he'd at least know weather the Nicks winning or loosing was preferable for his home teams' standing.

He closed his eyes and listened to the sports caster's commentary as he began to fall asleep.

_He was on a barstool at the counter at Joe's bar. There was a plate of cheese fries in front of him and a pint of beer was in his hand._

"_Richie, you know what this means," Joe was telling him from behind the bar. "I'm sorry, kid, but that's it."_

"_What's it?"_

"_The end of Mac's file. Hell, I don't want to have to report it, but he's not coming back."_

"_Yeah, he is," Richie insisted. "I can feel him, Joe. I know he's alive. He'll be home any minute now. He told me to meet him here."_

"_There's no reason to wait," Amanda said from beside him. "He's gone, Richie."_

"_No, he's not. I'm telling you I can feel it." As he spoke the buzz of another immortal washed over the two immortals in the bar._

_Connor walked through the door and took a side on Richie's other side. Joe put a beer in front of Connor and refilled Amanda's wine glass._

"_He's dead, and now I'm in charge," Connor said simply. "You're mine now."_

"_But Mac's not dead. I can't leave. What if he comes to meet me and I'm gone?"_

"_You killed him," Connor said with a frown. "How can you not know he's dead."_

"_But he's not! I didn't!"_

"_You killed him!" Amanda screamed, drawing her sword and putting it at his throat. "You owe me!"_

"_He belongs to me now." Connor put his own sword on the other side of Richie's neck, scissoring with Amanda's blade._

"_No! He's not dead! I didn't kill him!" Richie insisted, pulling a gun from his belt. "He's alive!"_

"_I have to report it," Joe said. "Everything is in the files."_

_Connor and Amanda leaned in, both ready to take Richie's head, both ready to work in harmony with the other. In self defense, Richie squeezed the trigger, the barrel of the gun pressed firmly into Connor's stomach. Then he turned and shot Amanda. Both immortals fell away from him as a third shot went off._

_Joe stood behind the bar, a smoking riffle in his hands. Richie looked down at his own chest, blood dripping down the front of his shirt._

"_I have to report it," Joe said as Richie fell to the ground. "The files know everything."_

_Alone in the dark void Richie's vision blurred in and out of focus. A light shone on him from a source far above his head. A figure began towards him, floating from above to Richie's body laying in the black. _

"_I can feel you," Richie whispered to the figure._

"_You've always believed in me," the figure said, reaching out and healing the bullet wound in Richie's chest. "Trust me and believe in yourself."_

"_What?"_

"_Trust me," the figure repeated in a deep brogue. "I can feel you, too."_


	9. Chapter 9

Richie woke up, slapping the alarm off

Richie woke up, slapping the alarm off. He stretched, groaning as his stiff muscles told him how deeply he had slept the night before. Connor had been working him hard, jogging in the mornings to the gym where he did yoga and karate on alternate days, then several hours of reading in preparation for school starting today, followed by—

Today.

Damn it.

Richie looked up at the clock perched on the headboard. Glowing red numbers told him it was 7:30 am. He got up and opened the window they had installed that looked out over the main living area. Connor was in the kitchen.

"Did you change my alarm?"

"Thought you deserved to sleep in today. We'll change jogging to evening," Connor answered, slicing the leftover Italian loaf.

"You're still making me do this?" Richie closed his eyes and stretched out the window.

"I've spent enough money already to make sure you see this through. Breakfast is almost ready."

Richie flipped the light on and wondered into his closet. That was another benefit of building your own room, designing your own closet. He got dressed and wandered down the stairs. Rachel had arrived at some point and was beaming at him from the table, set with French toast, bacon, scrambled eggs and fresh orange juice.

"Are we doing this every morning?" Richie questioned.

"We just wanted to make today special," Rachel told him.

"You act like I haven't done this thirteen times before."

"I did this every year for Rachel. It's a family tradition." Connor sat down next to Richie.

They ate breakfast and Rachel went down to the store with Richie to say goodbye. He slung his surplus Army rucksack over his shoulder and dashed through traffic to the subway station. On the train he saw many students all headed to one of the cities many public and private schools. A small herd exited with him and, in a small protective pack they made their way down the block to the campus.

His first class was Freshman Composition One. The teacher was an older man with a bolding head that gave him the fat-friar look. He wheezed when he explained their four essays and participation grade. Richie sat in the back and tried not to get noticed when they moved on to reading the elements of the personal narrative aloud.

He could tell after just twenty minutes into the class that World History was going to be a bore. It was entirely based on the reading assignments with short answer essay exams and for every day of class you missed there was a two point deduction off your final grade.

Lunch was served in a huge dining hall that the entire campus ate in together. At noon there were no classes for an hour so the faculty and students could eat. It was strange and awkward to go through the serving line then find a table a dining room full of people you didn't know. It was more awkward when two monks seated themselves next to him at his table in the back corner.

In Spanish, they had to go around introducing themselves with "Hola, me llamo…. I'm taking Spanish because…" like a group of children. "Hola, me llamo Richie and I'm taking Spanish because my uncle wouldn't let me take French," earned him a raised eyebrow from the teacher and a laugh from his classmates.

The Complete Idiot's Guide To Math, as Richie had deemed his remedial class, was going to prove to be a challenge, not because of the subject matter, but from having to sit in a class taking it so slowly. He wished they had given him an opportunity to test out of this class. Richie was actually pretty good at math, once he got the hang of it. He's abysmal grades had been from constant moving and lack of interest. He knew he was going to get in trouble out of boredom if he didn't find a distraction.

Despite his track record with trouble in school, he made it through his first day with no problems other than uncomfortable lunch conversation. His first stop after his final class let out 7 hours after he started was the book store to pick up his texts. The store had texts, supplement books, cheat sheets, school supplies, various clothing with several different school's logos and mascots on them, and a small convenience store with sodas and prepackaged meals. He wondered the aisles, checking for his classes in the St. Xavier's College section of the shared bookstore. He bought his texts, an impossibly expensive calculator, a Spanish-English/English-Spanish dictionary, a verb conjugations book, a small stack of blue books, and some scan-trons. He crammed what he could into his rucksack and started off for the subway station. His bag was considerably heavier than before, but he was able to make the trip without running out of breath like most of his fellow students. And, as a bonus, he was able to avoid all unwanted conversation by pouring over his first Spanish chapter. He got through introductions by the time his stop came up with no awkward classmate conversations.

As he passed by the side alley of the store, he peeked into the dumpster. Sure enough just as he suspected, they were still there. He picked them up and went into the store through the side door. Richie waited patiently until Rachel was done with a customer before he showed her his sweat shirt.

"There were only two today."

Rachel frowned and picked one up. The brown calico mewed, scared at being separated from his only surviving sibling. "The other one died?"

"Yeah." He cradled the black and white kitten as it started to get brave enough to sniff and move around. "Connor'd let me keep 'em, right?"

"If we tell him the other four died, he might. You can ask him when he gets home."

"Where is he?"

"Not sure."

A customer came in, and Rachel handed the calico back to Richie. He tucked the brother and sister back into the sweatshirt and headed upstairs to find them someplace to sleep. He had them set up in a box with a custard cup of milk at his feet when Connor came home.

"So how was it?" Connor asked, knocking on the door as he came in.

Richie was sitting at his desk with his composition book in front of him reading an example essay.

"Not how I would have chosen to spend my day."

"Was it as bad as you expected?"

"I spent five and a half hours at an all guy's school," Richie reminded him. "I ate lunch with monks."

"And you were so well behaved they gave you a pet?" Connor looked into the box at Richie's feet. "What happened to gold stars?"

"I was about to talk to you about that."

"When Rachel was seven, I would have forseen this, but I think you're a bit old to be hiding pets in your room."

"Who's hiding them? I just brought them in today."

"And you want to keep them?"

"Yes."

Connor shrugged. "Okay. Finish your homework and I'll take you out to dinner."

**. . . . . .**

Dinner was Chinese across town.

"How are your classes?" Connor asked after they'd ordered.

Richie shrugged. "They teach, I learn enough to pass a test, what's there to tell?"

"Do you think you're going to like them?"

Richie snorted into his coke.

"At least not hate them?" Connor corrected.

"Maybe when I get out of two-plus-two-is-four-this-is-how-you-say-hello-which-is-the-verb, it'll get more interesting. Until then, I feel like I'm back in junior high."

"'Until then' that's promising."

Their soup arrived and they ate in silence for a while.

"I suppose we should talk about your new schedule." Connor sat back, pushing his leftover soup towards Richie.

"Do I get to sleep?" Richie asked.

Connor smiled. "Yes."

"Then whatever."

"Look, I'm not here to be a dictator. While your training is my responsibility; I'm planning on making sure you are at least agreeable to what's happening."

Richie sighed and stared into his egg drop soup. "Whatever."

Not so much satisfied as accepting that he would get no other answer, Connor continued. "Since you have classes all day Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I was thinking we could do conditioning in the evenings based on how much time you have with homework. Tuesdays and Thursdays do the usual routine with yoga and karate. Then Saturdays we'll work with weapons, Sundays off."

"Works for me."

"You think you can handle that?"

"We've been training almost every day for the last month; I'll be fine."

Their entrees arrived, interrupting their conversation again. That was the beautiful thing about talking to Richie over a meal, built in distractions.

"I think you're ready to start adding your sword back into your training."

"Isn't that the point?"

"Look, you had the idea of it, but your fundamentals lacked. If this were a century ago, I would never think of putting one in your hands this early into training, but in this day and age you have to rush a bit. You don't have the luxury of training in due time; we have to modify."

Richie looked up from his plate. "What good is teaching me how to punch someone if they've all got swords at my neck? I shouldn't have had to wait this long for it."

"I already told you, there's no point of putting a sword in your hands if you don't know how to control the hands themselves."

"So how does standing on my head in a sauna help?"

"Yoga is good for the body and mind. You need to know how to relax yourself. And, with your frame, bulking up too much is going to make it harder for you to move. You work with what you have; what you have is speed and agility, we're just improving them. Your flexibility and ability to move is going to be your edge."

Richie turned back to his dinner. He had promised himself he'd keep his head down and bide his time. He was here to train enough to find out what happened to Duncan. If that meant hot box yoga, so be it. "Fine."

Connor turned his attention to his meal, too. It hadn't taken him long to learn to read Richie and his moods. It wasn't much different from Rachel at the same age. When she felt cornered and out of control, she shut down and just let it happen. That was all Richie was doing now. There was no use in trying to indulge or compromise with him. Especially not in these circumstances. Sometimes it really was best to leave it at "for your own good."

**. . . . . .**

Meredith was there when Richie came in from yoga the next morning.

"Hi, Richie!" she greeted him cheerily from the kitchen. "I'm making Russell breakfast, should I add some eggs?"

"I'm kinda "namaste" right now, not really hungry." He stoped mid-decent of the staircase and went to his room instead.

From his desk, scribbling out math exercises, he could see "Uncle Russell" and Meredith eating breakfast at the table. Richie couldn't help but stare as they talked and ate. Something about Meredith rubbed him the wrong way. He didn't like the way she was around so much. It was almost as if she didn't have her own job or apartment. She was there nearly every day. How were they supposed to start with swords with some mortal in their den all the time?

He spent the morning in his room doing class work until he ran out of work to do. That, and he was starving and the granola in his room from the night before wasn't cutting it. He went downstairs and found Connor and Meredith at the desk, talking quietly about something. Happy to not talk with them, he went into the kitchen area and looked through the leftovers.

"I can make you something," Meredith offered coming over.

"I got it," he said with a forced smile.

"I don't mind. You've been up there all day, why don't you relax?" she offered.

"I can put some mini pizzas in the microwave."

"They'll be crispier if you put them in the oven."

"If I wanted that, I would be perfectly capable of doing it myself. I got it." He turned his back to her and watched his French bread pizzas cook.

"Do you want a salad?"

Richie turned on her. "Meredith. I am nineteen years old. I've been making myself lunch for a long time, now. I think I have things under control. Uncle Russell even lets me use the knives if I promise to be really careful."

Connor shot him a look from across the room, but Richie pretended to ignore it as he went back to watching his pizzas in the microwave. He got a bottle of water out of the refrigerator, tore off a paper towel, and took his food up to his room. No sooner had he kicked the door shut behind him, than it opened again.

"What the hell was that?" Connor asked him.

"I made lunch." Richie sat on his bed and flipped the TV on.

"She was trying to be nice."

"I tried to be nice, too."

Connor took the remote out of Richie's hand, and stepped between him and the TV. "You do that again, and you're going to regret it."

"Look, I'm here to train, you stuck me in school. That's all I plan on doing. I don't have a need to talk to her. So why don't you tell her to leave me alone? I'm just gonna mind my own business and do my thing. She can do the same."

Connor didn't respond at first. He'd never had someone so blatantly talk back to him before. He clenched and unclenched his jaw, counting in his head. "20 miles," he said.

"What?"

"Ten for speaking that way to Meredith and ten for speaking that way to me. If you don't log twenty miles by the end of the night, you're going to learn the hard way."

"Learn what the hard way?" Richie challenged.

Connor leaned in, so the two were nose to nose. "If you want to find out, cross me again." He dropped the remote onto the bed and walked out the door.


	10. Chapter 10

Miss. Wrigglesworth is borrowed with permission from MathPiglet. Check out her fics for more info on her OC and her original adventures!

* * *

Richie sat on his bed, looking around to make sure he had everything for his first day of mandatory volunteer work. Not quite sure what he was going to do, he'd put a paperback and his Spanish workbook into his bag in case he ended up with spare time. He had been assigned to a middle school not three blocks from the apartment. He heard that other students that worked at schools had been told to do everything from heavy lifting, to grading papers, to supervising detention.

As he was about to close his bag, he saw it moving. Reaching in, he extracted the black and white kitten that had stowed away.

"Trying to get me into trouble?" he asked the, as of yet, unnamed kitten. The kitten mewed and swiped at his nose, her claws scratching him. Her eyes sparkled as Richie's quickening sparked to quickly heal the wound. "So that's what you wanted." He put the kitten down.

Over the weeks, the kittens had come to be fascinated by quickenings. They routinely scratched Richie if he wasn't quick enough and seemed delighted at the light show they got for their efforts. They only seemed to associate Richie with their favorite game, so that they didn't go around scratching everyone was good enough in Richie's book not to be too upset by their play. He double checked their food and water before leaving his room, the kittens at his heels off to play in the rest of the apartment.

"You off?" Connor asked him from down in the living room.

"Yeah," Richie answered monotone. After their confrontation over Meredith, conversation between the two had been strained. Richie's legs were still jelly from his running assignment.

"Will you be home for dinner?"

"Yeah. Probably before, really."

"Do you have time to practice tonight?"

He thought over what homework he had left. "Sure."

**. . . . . .**

Middle School 218 was so close to the apartment, that there was little reason to waste a subway token on the trip. Richie hoofed it, stopping by a bakery for a bagel and coffee on the way. He got to the school early as instructed and was presented with a stack of papers to fill out and sign. Once he assured them he was, indeed, who he claimed to be, he was presented with an ID on a lanyard and his assignment. He was going to be helping the advanced math teacher. He couldn't help but groan at the irony of it. Here he was, the star of his remedial math class, about to help the advanced math students. Life was cruel, sometimes.

He followed the directions to his assignment, Ms. Wrigglesworth room 207. As he rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, the presence of another immortal prickled his senses.

"Seriously?" he asked no one in particular. He looked up and down the hall for the source of the buzz. At the far end, a classroom door opened and a petite woman stepped out.

"Not in front of the children," the woman said, almost exasperatedly.

"Oh," Richie put his hands to his sides, palms out to show he was unarmed. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm here to meet," he consulted his assignment sheet. "Miss. Wrigglesworth."

Her eyes narrowed and she looked him over, not missing the official school district badge around his neck. "You're from the college?"

"Yeah. I'm just here to get my credit. I don't want anything."

Her expression softened and she smiled a bit. "Well, come in, then. They won't stay this quiet for this much longer." She opened the classroom door and only then did Richie notice the sign on it 'Miss. Wrigglesworth Advanced Mathematics.'

Richie rolled his eyes. "Naturally."

In the room, she directed him to the empty teacher's desk at the back, while taking her place in front of her own. "I suppose since you all finished the warm up so easily, we should count it as a quiz grade?" she asked the class, directing their attention away from Richie.

The class groaned collectively and switched papers as directed to grade what they had done of their daily warm-ups. For three class periods, Richie alphabetized, graded and recorded warm ups and homework assignments before turning to his own homework. When he expected the fourth period class to show up, Miss. Wrigglesworth got up from her desk, organizing papers.

"We have first lunch and then a planning period," she explained. "Usually I let my volunteers do what they want until the next class, but I suppose you and I should take some time to get to know each other under the circumstances."

"Um, okay." Richie got up and motioned he'd follow her.

"I think off campus would be good today, considering what we need to discus," she said, taking her purse. She looked at Richie and smiled. "My treat, of course."

She took him down the street to a café where they could seclude themselves without looking suspicious. After they ordered, she folded her arms on the table and looked him over again. With a faint smile on her lips she asked, "How old are you, really?"

Richie, for his part squirmed a bit and looked at his water glass. He hated that question. "Nineteen. I'll be twenty in September."

If Miss. Wrigglesworth was surprised by his answer, she hid it well. "You're quite young. Do you understand what you are?"

"Yeah, I knew about it before I… I know."

"Was it recent?" she had picked up on his reluctance to talk about it, but knew for some people it was a topic that needed perusing.

"A few months ago," he answered with a tight smile. "I'm not really much of a threat."

"To tell you the truth, neither am I," she told him, almost conspiringly as their food was delivered.

"Do you not train?"

"I do. I'm more a victim of genetics." She gestured indicating her petite and slim frame.

"I hear that."

They sat quietly for a few minutes, eating their lunches.

"What about you?" she asked, before biting into a carrot stick.

"I train everyday one way or another." Richie told her. "My teacher's pretty old fashioned and likes to keep to a schedule."

"Do you mind if I ask who it is?"

Richie paused, not sure if he should answer. Surely being this candid with an immortal he'd just met was not the best idea. But, something in his gut told him she was one of the good guys. After all she liked to play "regular joe" just as much as Duncan and Connor seemed to, taking up a real job, interacting with mortals, blending in. And she didn't seem to be too anxious to pick up a sword against him.

"Connor MacLeod." He followed his instincts and told her.

For her part, Miss. Wrigglesworth, again, hid any reaction she may have had. For a minute, Richie thought he had made a mistake. She seemed to be thinking about something, and in his experience any immortal thinking too hard usually meant an uncomfortable night for him. Before he could worry enough to try to leave she spoke again.

"I've heard of him and his kinsman. I didn't realize you were that Richie."

Worry turned to panic quickly after that comment. "That Richie?" he repeated. "You know who I am?"

She smiled again, a smile that despite what past experience taught him calmed Richie a bit. "We have a mutual friend. Amanda was my teacher," she explained. "When she told me about Duncan, she neglected to tell me you were coming my way." She reached around the table and put her hand on Richie's knee. "I am sorry about what happened."

"What did she say about me?" he asked. "Last I talked to her she was pretty mad."

Miss. Wrigglesworth smiled that calming smile again. "She's fine. You know Amanda. She's nothing if not passionate."

"Guess if anyone knows her, it'd be you."

Miss. Wrigglesworth checked her watch. "We'd better eat. We have to be back soon."

**. . . . . .**

Richie returned home a little before five after spending the last half of the day the same as the first half. He did, though, finish his Spanish homework for the week and read four chapters of his book. He saw Connor on the couch downstairs, petting one of the kittens, and put his bag in his room before going down. The black female was purring contentedly in Connor's lap, and the brown male jumped at the chance to attack Richie as soon as he sat in the arm chair.

"How was it?' Connor asked, trying to hide his surprise at Richie making the first move.

"I'm working for the advanced math teacher."

Connor smirked. "Maybe she can help you."

"I'm doing fine. I got a B on my quiz last week."

"Good for you."

Richie scratched the kitten's stomach as it lay half asleep on its back. "There's more."

"What?"

"She's an immortal."

"The teacher?" Connor moved the kitten off his lap and sat forward a bit.

"Yeah. She's cool though. We talked. She actually knows Amanda, she was her teacher."

"Who was who's teacher?"

"Amanda was her teacher."

Connor sat back. "Okay. If you trust her, we'll go with it." The black kitten settled back into his lap. "You have to name these two if we're keeping them."

"I'm thinking."

"Are you training tonight?" Connor changed the subject.

"Yeah."

It would be the first time they trained together since the incident about Meredith two weeks before. Richie had refused to train due to his legs giving out on him after his running. After that, the two had strained to even notice one another. It seemed as though the mature relationship Richie had with Duncan was one he would have with all MacLeods. In truth, Richie suspected, if he hadn't felt it important to tell Connor about meeting another immortal, he may not have been having this conversation now.

"What are we doing?" Richie asked.

"I don't know," Connor almost shrugged. "Why don't we eat dinner and get the swords out?"

"Alright."

**. . . . . .**

"You're getting better," Connor praised, giving Richie a hand up off the floor. "You're stamina has really improved."

"Twenty miles in one night can do that to ya," Richie mumbled, wiping his sweaty face.

"You deserved it," Connor told him point blank.

"What do you care if I like your girlfriend anyway? I'm not the one dating her."

"It has nothing to do with her being my girlfriend. It has everything to do with respect."

"That's not what you said the other night. Ten for her, ten for you."

"Respect for me, Richie. I don't care if you like her or not, I do care that you show me the respect of being polite to her. I am your teacher."

Richie's eyes narrowed. "If that's all you care about, why the school BS? I want Sladkie's head for what he did."

"And what about after?" Connor asked. "If you survived the fight. If by some miracle you won. Then what? What would you do? You have no skills. No degree. No way to pay the bills. You still have to live in the real world, Richie. And in the real world you need a degree to survive."

"Why can't I do it after?"

"Who knows how long it will be before you get your chance. Even hunting him it could take years. You don't want to go now and you're at the proper age. Will you want to go when you're ten, fifteen years older?"

Richie couldn't think of what to say. Of course, Connor was right. If he wasn't forced into it, he didn't have much intention to go to college. And even as an immortal, he'd have to be part of the mortal world.

"I guess I didn't think of that," he admitted quietly.

"When I was your age, I didn't either. But that's why I'm here. Someone has to learn from my mistakes."

"You make it sound like you're my dad or something."

"That's Uncle Russell to you." Connor put his arm around Richie's shoulders and guided him out of the warehouse space and into the living quarters. "Meredith is coming to make us dinner tomorrow."

"I still don't like her."

"I told you, you don't have to. Just keep a civil tongue in your head and we'll all be just fine."

"How about we just tell her I have strep and I don't say anything?"

"Then how will I know if you learned your lesson?"

Richie smirked. "I won't be saying anything."

"You forget," Connor smirked back. "I know you."


	11. Chapter 11

"B-B-Q day," Aaron sat next to Richie with this lunch tray laden with chipped beef, corn, beans, and bread all smothered in rich, homemade, sauce

"B-B-Q day," Aaron sat next to Richie with this lunch tray laden with chipped beef, corn, beans, and bread all smothered in rich, homemade, sauce. "My favorite day of the month."

"They should make sausage some time," Richie commented, dipping his roll in his beans.

"Ready for the math final?" Brady asked from Richie's other side, wiping his mouth as sauce dribbled down his chin.

"Ready to fail it," Aaron answered with a grin. "I know I'm gonna have to take the class again."

"I think I got it this time," Richie had to admit. "It's finally clicking. 'Sides, I was so close to passing last semester, there's no way I'm not moving on this time."

The three had met in remedial math the semester before, and had all failed it together. After failing by less than three points, Richie asked Mrs. Wrigglesworth for help figuring out just what he was doing wrong. After that math had been easy, well, easier at the very least.

"Summer plans?" Brady asked, keeping the conversation going, not wanting any well-intending monk to sit down to create conversation.

"Summer school math," Aaron laughed. "Really, there's no way I'm getting out of it. My folks are gonna kill me if I don't get outta idiot math by next year."

"What about you?" Brady asked Richie.

"Dunno, I'm sure my uncle has something planned. I think he wants to go to Europe or something and he's not going to leave me home alone. You?"

"Work," Brady shrugged. "Summer gets real busy at the restaurant with the tourists. Who knew people came to New York for sushi? Oh, you guys wanna come for dinner Friday? My dad'll pick up the tab. All you can eat sushi and tempura," he tempted.

"Any of that cooked?" Richie asked.

"Tempura is, it's fried."

"Then I'm there. Who else is invited?"

"Probably you guys and some guys I know from Lit class. If it gets too big my dad will make us pay."

"Keep it small," Richie and Aaron agreed at the same time.

**. . . . . .**

To repay her for her help in math, Richie volunteered to help Mrs. Wrigglesworth everyday he wasn't in exams to help her proctor her own exams. He slipped in a bit late on the last day. The students were already deep in thought, typing away on their calculators and chewing on their erasers.

"How did it go?" Mrs. Wrigglesworth asked him as he leaned over her desk.

"I stayed late to get my grade." He handed his test to her with a red 87 circled at the top. "That's a 79 for the semester," he grinned. "I finally passed."

She smiled broadly at him, "I knew you would do it. Congratulations. Why don't you take the day off and go celebrate with your 'uncle'?" she suggested.

"Naw, he's spending the day with Meredith," he rolled his eyes. Over the course of the year there had been no more incidents between Richie and Meredith, but it wasn't easy to keep it that way. Richie had confided in Mrs. Wrigglesworth as he helped rearrange the classroom, hang posters, grade papers and preside over detention.

Mrs. Wrigglesworth sighed and shook her head. "I heard the stories from Amanda, but I thought, surely they couldn't be true. She had to have been exaggerating. Little did I know- Eyes on your own paper Andrew, if you need better light you can sit in the front with me."

"There's no need to exaggerate with us," Richie smiled. "Where do you want me?"

"Keep an eye on that back corner; they look like they're up to something."

**. . . . . .**

"So you finally passed, eh?" Connor asked, when he greeted Richie at the door that evening.

"Never thought I would, did ya?"

"He's even starting to sound like a New Yorker," a voice groaned from the living room.

"Joe?" Richie pushed passed Connor excitedly and nearly ran to the older man sitting on the couch. "What are you doing here?"

"Came to see you. Connor said today was your last day, so I thought it was a good time to come out."

"How long have you been planning this and why didn't anyone tell me?" Richie demanded looking between the two conspirators.

Connor smiled innocently. "More fun this way. Who wants dinner?"

At dinner Joe put a file folder in front of Richie as they waited for their steaks to be cooked.

"What's this?" Richie asked, looking at the official Watcher's seal stamped on it.

"Your file," Joe explained. "I just thought that with the rarity of our relationship it'd be a good chance to make sure we keep our files correct and up to date. That's your background file. Just look through it and see that everything's right. Would be a nice change of pace for the old guys in research."

"You're just giving it to me? Isn't this, like, against regulations or something?"

Joe shrugged and smiled. "I'm an old man, what are they going to do to me?"

"Dunno, don't they kill the traitors?"

"Then keep it quiet."

"What about our watchers?" Connor asked. "Won't they see you hand the file over?"

"Not if they were told they could take a vacation while I was in town."

"Sneaky old bastard."

Their steaks arrived and the men changed their conversation from business to sports and vacation.

"So if you're not working, Rich, I suppose your social life is a little on the non existent side," Joe commented.

"No, I go out plenty. I just don't have to pay for it," Richie grinned back. "And as much as I don't want to admit it, between training and school there isn't much time for working anyway. My schedule is packed pretty tight."

"Nice to know you can learn," Connor slapped him in the shoulder. "Though, as long as we're admitting things. He's really taken to his training. I think this kid has a shot at it."

"Whatever it is," Richie added, trying to brush off the overwhelming feeling of pride the simple comment brought on.

"He was never that bad," Joe said, putting his napkin on his empty plate. "Just green."

"Uncle Russell just let me start using swords. He started me on the baby level."

"Uncle Russell?"

"Cover story."

"I know, but you don't have to cover anything with me."

Richie shrugged. "Habit."

**. . . . . .**

That night in the loft, Richie lay out on his bed with his file in front of him. It was strange to have access to it. His whole life had been documented and store in a filing cabinet. He had never once been granted permission to read what everyone else wrote about him. One time he had managed to steal his file, but hadn't gotten to see much before he was caught. But now, here it was. Well, one of them.

With a deep breath, his flipped the thin folder open to the first page. There was a long spiel about authorization and legalities that Richie didn't quite understand, but understood enough to know that he wasn't supposed to be looking through it. The next page was a photocopy of a page from Duncan file detailing the night they had met from Joe's prospective. Apparently he had been tipped off about Slan Quince and had staked out the store in anticipation.

It was a little strange reading a narrative of the evening with the names "Immortal D. MacLeod" and "Unknown Teen" taking place of the proper ones. The next entry was a copy for Quince's file, and then one for Connor's (Immortal C. MacLeod) all detailing the same evening from three different perspectives. It was like reading a novel written by three different authors.

After that there were entries about the times Richie had gotten involved in cases with other immortals where he was referred to as "Apprentice" and described as either a possible immortal or watcher recruit. Then finally, apparently after some research they found his name and from there on out he was referred to as "Teen Ryan". There were some notes about looking into his foster records, but they never seemed to get a hold of them. The first year or so of his chronicles were short one page entries all written by Joe with the details of how he guessed Richie became involved.

After he became immortal the reports starting coming in from different watchers as they followed him, or the immortal they were assigned to followed him. He skimmed them over, some stories he recognized, other he had no idea had happened. Apparently he had been more popular among immortals than he'd ever known. Every week or so one seemed to be scoping him out, looking at his abilities, apparently deciding if he was worth a fight or not.

He made it to an entry about his encounter with Sladkie at the market a few days before Duncan had been killed. It was quick and to the point.

"Immortal Sladkie had confrontation with Immortal Richards at 2:30 pm in local market. Challenge Issued."

Frowning, Richie looked at it again. Immortal Richards? Who the hell was that? The Watcher filing the report must have gotten his name wrong. But since Joe knew what happened he hadn't double checked the report. Shrugging, he got off his bed and made it downstairs where Connor and Joe were talking over coffee.

"You guys need editors or something." Richie put the file down in front of Joe and opened it to the appropriate page. "You guys got your names mixed up."

Joe looked it over. "Huh, look at that." He flipped the page. "Yup, here they get Sladkie's name wrong. Too many cooks working on the same dish. I'll fix it." He closed the file.

"That's pretty sloppy, Joe."

"Why do you think I wanted you to look at it? We get things wrong all the time. Misidentify immortals, mix up who challenged whom…but it's all in the files so we've got it all on paper."

"Got it all wrong on paper."

The oven alarm started going off. Richie got up to shut it off, but no matter what button he pushed it wouldn't stop beeping at him. As he puzzled over the oven, the microwave, then toaster starting dinging at him. Confused, he tried to turn off the appliances, but none of them would respond. They just kept going off.

Richie sat up in bed and quickly turned off his alarm clock. It was 5:30 and time to get dressed to go to the gym. He shook his head. He hated those realistic dreams. The ones where you can't tell fiction from reality.

"You getting ready?" Connor yelled from the kitchen.

"Just a minute!" he yelled back, through the open window that looked out over the rest of the loft.

As he stumbled into his closet his foot kicked a pile of old school papers that he had meant to throw away. He looked down at the report on top, a sociology of history paper about misidentified soldiers being sent to the wrong families after dying in war.

"_We get things wrong all the time…"_

The words rang in his ears. Where did he hear that?

"_The files know everything…"_

His dreams. Things Joe told him in his dreams about Duncan. In the last two years he had remained convinced that Duncan was still alive. There was no proof otherwise other than some stupid entry in a file folder.

"_We get things wrong all the time…"_

Richie tried to shake the feeling and get dressed ready for yoga. He had moved on to the advanced class after attending at least twice a week for two years. His body had changed drastically, though he hadn't grown his lean muscles made him look longer. Swords had finally become a regular part of his training and Connor didn't trust him to spar with anybody that was not immortal, anymore. He didn't want Richie faltering and trying to pull back and sensor his moves by accident when in a challenge.

"You coming?" Connor asked, this time from the bedroom door.

"Yeah, sorry. Had a weird dream, can't really shake it."

"About Duncan?" he asked, knowingly sitting in the desk chair.

"Not really… not like the others. It was about the Watchers and their chronicles. That they're wrong."

Connor sighed. "Richie, I'm not one to tell people how to feel, but you really need to get over this. It's been way too long. Do you need to talk to someone professionally?"

"You think I like feeling like this?" Richie shot back, pulling on a t-shirt. "You think I like thinking that Mac is out there somewhere and I'm supposed to do something but don't know what? That it's all my fault?"

"Look, you're summer just started, right?"

"What about it?"

"If I can get your hands on those files, and prove to you what really happened, do you think it will help?"

"Can you do that?"

"We may need to do some traveling, but if it's going to help you, I'll see what I can do."

"You really think this is all in my head?" Richie slid on his sandals, no use tying on sneakers when he was just going to take them off at the gym.

"What I know is it's in the files. Those stalkers have to be good for something."


	12. Chapter 12

It wasn't the plane that made him queasy

It wasn't the plane that made him queasy. It wasn't the altitude. It wasn't the re-circulated air. It was that the seats were so small, and he was so cramped, and there was no way out. And they always turned the lights out on these over-night flights, which just reminded him all the more of bad foster home experiences. Richie sighed and shifted in his seat. Even in first-class, he was unbearably cramped. He closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing, trying to calm his claustrophobic nerves.

"Sir, are you alright?"

Richie jumped at the flight attendant's question.

"Yeah. Uh, actually, you know what?" he fished out his wallet, then credit card. "Get me the strongest drink you have. Two."

Minutes later, after downing both drinks in one go, Richie felt the alcohol do what breathing exercises couldn't. Two drinks more and he was calm enough that he could nap lightly the rest of the way to Germany.

When they landed, Connor led the way straight to the rental cars. They had packed all they needed in carry-on luggage. They weren't going to be here long. Richie couldn't remember ever getting out of an airport so quickly. But speed was important.

"Did you see anyone?" Connor asked as they weaved through city traffic.

Richie twisted around in his seat double checking for a familiar car or face. "No one, yet. How long until you think they notice we're gone?"

"It depends on how observant they are."

Richie settled into his seat and closed his eyes. This was it. By the end of the next day, he would know for sure if his dreams were nothing more than a hopeful subconscious or something more powerful.

_Believe in yourself._

_It's all in the files._

The two themes of his dreams for the last two years. There weren't nightly. They weren't weekly. There was no rhyme, reason, or pattern to them. He didn't get them when he was stressed. He didn't get them around special occasions or significant dates.

Over the years, he kept track as best he could of when the dreams occurred. He'd scoured ever sort of calendar, metaphysical charts, celestial diagram… anything he could get his hands on to explain what was happening to him. He had even toyed with going to a psychic, but after what happened to Tessa he couldn't bring himself to go near one.

"You're going to break it." Connor's voice interrupted his thoughts. Only then did he realize he was grasping the car door white knuckled.

"Sorry."

"Calm down. They won't even notice you."

Richie nodded and looked out the window as Germans and tourists alike rushed in out of the sudden down pour.

"Did you register for your classes?" Connor changed the subject.

"I arranged it so Rachel could do it for me. My date is while we're gone." Richie paused. "I actually wanted to talk to you about school."

"You're finishing. I don't care what degree you get. Just get one."

"I know, I know. I was just wondering if you had some time-line in mind."

"Take your time. As long as you're enrolled full time and have some idea of what you're doing, I don't care."

"Cool, 'cause Miss Wrigglesworth… did I tell you she was leaving?"

"Yes."

"Well, we were talking and she introduced me to Ms. Martin, who teaches history. And I'm going to do my volunteering with her next year."

"What does that have to do with you graduating?" Connor asked, on the verge of exasperation. He couldn't get used to Richie's rambling way of telling stories.

"They both thought I'd make a pretty good teacher," Richie finally got to the point. "If I start now, well this coming semester, it'd only add a semester of classes and then a year of student teaching. Ms. Martin has already offered to let me student teach under her when the time comes."

"Sounds like a good plan. If that's what you want, go for it."

There was no more conversation after that until, hunched over blue prints in their hotel room that night, Connor went over the plan again.

"Now, these are the blue prints on record with the officials," he explained. "They may have changed things around a bit, but with structures this old there isn't too much you can do but use the space as best you can. Study this. It's only one floor and a basement, it won't be hard to memorize."

Richie moved the desk lamp to better illuminate the drawings of the old church. It was a simple and traditional lay out: a large open area to worship surrounded by smaller rooms for clergy and a single space open basement.

"The only people there are researchers and librarians and you're young enough I doubt we need to worry about you being recognized. So just be calm and try to blend in."

Richie nodded as he tried to figure out how he would use the available space if he were storing thousands of years worth of files documenting people's lives. He'd just use a computer.

"Computers. Do we have passwords?"

"Try low tech first."

**. . . . . .**

"Don't mess with it, you'll smudge it," Connor warned as Richie examined the inked-on Watcher's tattoo. It looked exactly like Joe's. "Keep your sleeves down, act like you're used to it. Just follow the plan: get in, get what you need, get out."

Richie nodded and put the car in gear out side their hotel.

"See you when you get back. Not latter than noon, or I'm assuming something went wrong."

"Noon," Richie agreed.

Richie drove the narrow roads half his mind on driving, half on what he had to do when he got there. The Central Watcher's Records Storage, secret as it was, wasn't very hard to find if you knew what you were looking for. It was labeled "Private Property No Tours." Richie ignored the sign and started up the long driveway. There were no guards posted. It didn't even seem like anyone was there.

"Easy mark."

The door was even unlocked.

"Too easy."

Inside was a hodge podge of files, spilling out of shelves and drawers. He glanced at his watch and rolled his eyes.

"Noon. Yeah, right. I need a computer."

He looked around the entry and spotted exactly what he was hoping to find. He followed the retro-fitter power lines, examining the bundle until he found an Ethernet cable.

"Technology wins again."

He just hoped their computer security was a lax as their building security.

"Can I help you?" a thing woman looked up at Richie, a confused look on her face, from her seat on the floor surrounded by four foot high piles of file folders.

"Yeah, actually." Richie gave her a sheepish smile. "I'm on a real dead-line and I need to look up a couple files. I was hoping you had the computer system up?"

"You mean the database?"

"Please tell me it's up. The guys in Paris said it was up." He did his best to look desperate, not scared.

She shrugged and looked back down on the files in her lap. "The boys tend to fight over it, but you look like you could beat them if you had to. The stairs are in the back: straight a head on your left. Follow the beer smell. You can't miss it."

"Gee, thanks, you're really saving me here." He smiled at her broadly.

She smiled back and adjusted her glasses. "Glad to help."

Following her directions he easily found his way to the lone computer where "the boys" were working away on a two-player shoot 'em up game. He hovered behind them, waiting to be noticed. He watched them re-start the level twice before speaking up.

"Can you save? I have work to do."

They turned around. "Who the hell are you?" one of them demanded.

"Cole. Can I…" he gestured at the computer.

"Do you have clearance?" the second asked.

"No one said I needed clearance. This thing's barely put together."

The two gamers banded together against the interloper.

"Can't just let any ol' Joe go through our records."

Richie sighed and put his hands up. "You got me. I'm really an immortal here to get the info on my life-long enemy."

Just as he finished his sentence the sensation of an immortal washed over him. A third computer –guy came out of the shadows from behind the shelves.

"Now, boys, you're being rude," the new immortal said with an air of easy authority. "This kid came a long way on assignment. Don't play KGB with him." He turned to Richie. "I'll help you." Then to the other watchers: "Why don't you go practice your moves on Joany?"

Grumbling, the two got up and left. The strange immortal tapped a few keys and logged Richie into the International Watcher's Database.

"There you go."

Richie looked at him suspiciously. "That's it? You're just going to let me on?"

The immortal shrugged his narrow shoulders. "If you're good enough to get this far you may as well get your reward."

"Thanks." Still keeping an eye on the immortal, Richie sat down and ran a search.

"Sladkie, eh? Aren't you a little young to go after a guy like that on your own?"

"For all you know, I'm 5,000."

"If you were that old, you'd be looking for him under Arsenios."

Richie looked up sharply from the computer screen he was scanning. "What?"

"He's only gone by Sladkie for the last few centuries. Between identities he disappeared almost entirely. The Watcher's haven't quite put together they are the same person. Without photographs they probably never will."

"What?"

Rolling his eyes the immortal leaned over Richie and pulled up a new set of files. "I'll give you the cheat sheet." He sent the file to print.

"Why are you doing this for me?" Richie asked, suspiciously.

"I like to give the young ones a chance," he said. "Besides, if someone else could take care of Arsenios for me it would save me a whole lot of trouble."

"You got a beef with him, too?"

"He's killed a few of my friends over the years. You?"

"My teacher."

"Sorry to hear that."

"Thanks."

"Here," the immortal tore off nearly a whole ream of paper from the printer. "Take time with this one. Don't let your emotions get the best of you. You really do have all the time in the world to get your revenge."

"I'm Richie." He put out his hand.

The immortal smirked at him, eye brows raised, and shoved the papers into his hand. "Charmed."

"And you are…?"

"A friend worth making."

**. . . . . .**

_Somewhere in New England_

A bright light filled the usually pitch black concrete bunker. A shell of a man, nothing more than skin and bones, allowed his stringy, thick, dark hair to hang in his eyes to help block out the sudden light. He didn't bother to move as another man, a strong, broad, well muscled man, approached him. It wasn't worth it. The end was coming. It was only a matter of time before his captor grew tired of taunting him.

"Your cousin took the child to Germany," the broad man said. "Perhaps the elder MacLeod isn't as clueless as I imagined." A smile curled on his lips. "Or maybe it's that boy. It will be nice to hear their brilliant plan in person. Tell me, how long do you think the child will last before he tells me everything I want to know? Do you think he's as stubborn as you Scots pride yourself on being? Do you think he has the loyalty? I think he'll tell me anything I choose to beat out of him."

A gnarled, shriveled hand, fueled by adrenaline grabbed at his ankle.

"Leave him alone…"


	13. Chapter 13

After hearing about the security breach in Germany, Joe wasn't surprised to find that Richie was identified as the culprit. It was only natural to assume that MacLeod, the elder, was behind it. Knowing what they had found it was also natural for Joe to assume that it was only a matter of time before it all came back to him. So, when Richie breezed into the bar just three nights after he disappeared from Germany, it was only natural. What wasn't natural was Richie's all-business attitude.

"Can we talk?" he asked in an eerily Duncan-like tone.

"Sure. My office."

Once the door was closed, Richie put a file on Joe's desk.

"How could you guys miss this?" He demanded. "I thought your people lurked around every corner?"

"My people?" Joe repeated.

"How can you screw up like this?"

"Calm down, kid," Joe sighed. "I know you'd be coming and I looked into it. When we went from Arsenios to Sladkie it was during war."

"He was a top advisor to Ivan III, I read it, too. Tell me something I don't know."

"We didn't exactly have cellular phones and the internet back then."

Richie stood across from Joe, hands on the desk, looking surprisingly intimidating for a young man his size. "Where is he now?" he asked slowly.

"I can make some calls." It was scary to see the kid acting like this. He could almost swear it was Duncan lording over him. Especially when Richie handed him the receiver.

"Call."

**. . . . . .**

Somewhere on the page where words. He was sure of it. He tried so hard to concentrate in class; he couldn't have scribbled nonsense all 90 minutes.

"Spanish?" Rachel asked from over his shoulder. "Que bueno."

Richie blinked and suddenly the letters formed words. He had been trying to read in English. "Thought it was Western Civ," he mumbled to himself.

"Richie," Rachel moved his notebook aside and leaned against his desk. "You've been like this ever since Germany." She put her hand on his shoulder. "The only thing that trip proved is that he changed identities."

"So, you think I'm crazy, too."

"I've been behind you from the start. I just hate seeing you like this."

"Well, it won't last long."

"What?"

"I'm going to take care of it." He moved his notebook back in front of him. "But first, I have finals."

"Richie, what do you have planned?"

"Nothing I haven't been planning."

Rachel folded her arms and stared him down. "I don't like the sound of that."

"You don't have to."

"What am I Meredith now? I thought I was the one you liked? Why are you giving me the attitude?"

Richie didn't look up from his notes. "I got work to do."

**. . . . . .**

"Your little boy seems to be getting ready for something big." Sladkie dropped a file on the floor at his feet. "I thought you would like to see him before I break him."

He waited for Sladkie to leave before he reached for the file. Inside were photographs, blown up to a full page, each of Richie working out and training. He couldn't help but feel pride swell up in his chest getting to see the serious immortal Richie had become. It seemed he was training in everything from yoga, to kendo, to kick-boxing. He looked so strong and mature. Richie barely resembled the goofy teenager he remembered. He could tell even form just a few photos that Richie's whole demeanor had changed and it was because of him.

**. . . . . .**

Feet and fists were flying at him from all directions. It felt like a whole army was attacking him at once. But he knew better, there was only one man.

"Concentrate, Ryan!" his trainer yelled from ring-side. "Wake up!"

Richie shook his head to clear it, but he couldn't concentrate. He was bored. Besides, he had more important things to worry about.

"Goddamn it, Ryan! What the hell's wrong with you?" his trainer demanded, this time at his right ear.

"Sorry." Richie spit his mouth guard into his trainer's hand. He dimly realized he had lost the match. His opponent beamed proudly at his own trainer. At least it wasn't a real match. This had been nothing more than a testosterone battle. Only for bragging rights.

"You should have beaten that clown just by showing up!"

"Sorry," Richie mumbled again, taking off his gear. So he had lost the top spot at this gym. His legs were too short for him to be a good kick-boxer anyway.

"Get out of here," his trainer pushed him firmly out of the ring. "Don't come back until you have some fight in 'ya!"

Outside the gym the cool mid-march breeze chilled his sweat moist skin. He shrugged into his jacket and let his defeat drip down his back with the sweat droplets. Connor had warned him as he signed up for different gyms that eventually he would surpass all the other members and after that he should be beaten. Not because his opponent was better than him, but because he was too bored to pay attention. When that point came it was time to move on. So, on his way out he had cancelled his membership.

He only belonged to two gyms now: the yoga studio and the karate dojo. Maybe it meant soon he will have outgrown it all: the gyms, the city, maybe even Connor. What would happen then?

His phone trilled at him from his back pocket.

"I quit Stewart's," he said after accepting the call.

"The time as coming. I called Chang's. Pick up dinner. Meredith and Rachel are here." It wasn't mentioned in conversation, it was a warning.

"I have homework anyway."

"Of course."

They disconnected. Things had been strained at home ever since Germany. It had been meant to humor Richie, to give him proof that Duncan was dead. Instead, the new evidence fueled his belief that Duncan was still alive. He felt he was wrapped up in some conspiracy. Disbelievers, miss-labeled files... it was all like a badly written dime-store novel.

Mechanically he stopped by their usual take-out Chinese place, merely nodding his head at the busy owner as he took his order that was waiting for him at the counter. He didn't check it, it was always right. He didn't pay; they'd just charge the card they already had on file, if they hadn't already.

Once home he was forced into polite conversation over eggrolls and fried rice. He begged out as soon as he could and hid himself in his room to do his "homework". He set up his desk, laying out a partially done lesson plan that he had been working on the train. It wasn't due for another two weeks, but it made for a good cover story.

With his cover set up he pulled out a file folder with a stack of neatly printed contacts and notes. He took out his private cell phone, which he paid for with the money me made in underground fights. He paid for his p.o. box the same way.

He dialed a number and slipped into his alter ego.

"Jefferson's beauty supply," a female answered.

"I'm calling about the beagle ad I read in the paper," he repeated the same code-line he heard Joe use that night at the bar. Either Joe was wise enough not to rat him out, or really had no idea he had gleaned the code.

"The paper printed the wrong number." And she gave them the number of the secure line of their regional head quarters.

Once he dialed that line he passed some pathetically lame security points and got the information he wanted. Even though the Watchers knew he had broken in once before they hadn't beefed up security anywhere. They were that sure of their methods.

He repeated the act two more times first with an elementary school and then with an office supply store both of whom had had their numbers misprinted by the local paper in an ad looking for a good home for a beagle.

Everyone he talked to gave him slightly different information, but it all boiled down to Sladkie had recently taken an interest in a young immortal named Ryan. Sladkie was having him followed by a mortal who met him weekly on the same subway platform in Queens.

Richie took out a subway map and found the stop. Next week he'd spy on his spy and see what information he could get from him.

The ball was in his court and Sladkie hadn't heard the starting buzzer.


	14. Chapter 14

_Duncan wouldn't admit it, but he was surprised by the normalcy and frankly, niceness of the house. It was a large two story with a big front porch and toys in the front yard. A modest sign posted next to the steps read "McAlister's Home for Boys est. 1947". To the point there were a couple young boys in the yard playing and digging with toy trucks, several older boys playing basketball on the driveway and a steady stream of boys of all ages running in and out of the front door. As Duncan approached and crossed the yard the children didn't even seem to notice him, or if they did they weren't concerned by his presence. One boy, a rather small one with messy brown hair and fruit punch smudges on his face, ran face to stomach with Duncan as he ran out the front door._

_"Oops!" was all he said before running out to join the impromptu construction project on the lawn._

_Duncan knocked on the door, which was quickly answered by another fruit punch smudged face, this one with blond hair._

_"You a social worker?" the little boy asked in disgust._

_"No, but I am looking for the man in charge," Duncan replied trying to keep his voice light, a strange habit all adults seemed to pick up when around children. _

_"Hank's not here," the little boy told him. "He went to the grocery store."_

_"Who's in charge right now?" Surely there was more than one adult amid the sea of children._

_"I am." Richie came from around the corner and put a protective hand on the boy's shoulder. "Go on out, Remy," he said steering the boy past Duncan and onto the porch. "What are you doing here?" he asked with a frown. _

_"I got a call from the city, your social worker seemed to think it would be a good idea for me to meet with Hank Johnston. Something about paying me back."_

_"Well, he ain't here." Richie did his best to appear disinterested in this new turn of events. _

_"Can I wait for him? I have an appointment."_

_"Hank didn't say you'd be coming."_

_"Yet here I am."_

_"No stwrangwrs!" a toddler pulled urgently on the leg on Richie's jeans. "Hank says."_

_"He's no stranger." Richie picked the toddler up. "Just strange." He turned and went into the house. "Come on in, if you're not leaving." _

_The inside was just as large as the outside hinted it would be. The staircase was blocked at the top and bottom by baby-gates, and the body of the house was open in one grand-room. The kitchen overlooked the eating area and play areas that were nearly indistinguishable except for a cluster of tables with chairs crammed around them. Though, at the moment the tables seemed to be serving as after-school desks for a small gathering of high school aged boys. _

_"Who's he?" one of the boys at the table asked looking at Duncan suspiciously._

_"Shut up." Richie snapped as he held the giggling toddler upside down. "You done with your homework, yet?"_

_"What no talking?" the boy challenged. "This isn't study hall. You're not the principal." _

_"You're not done with yours." Another boy joined the fight, pointing at a stack of books and folders on the kitchen counter._

_"Your point? I'm not the one failing freshman year, Charlie."_

_"Oooohh," the kids in the room said together. _

_"So you can talk and keep failing or shut up and mind your business," Richie said pointedly. Charlie ducked his head and mumbled under his breath. "I heard that." _

_Duncan was amazed at how much the seventeen year old sounded like an exasperated father ruling over a brood of roughly twelve, by Duncan's count, without breaking a sweat. Richie put the now red-faced and gasping toddler down on the couch where he toppled off in a fresh fit of hysterics._

_"You wanna sit or something?" Richie gestured to the stained and battered couch. "I'd say we can go somewhere private, but I'm kinda babysitting."_

_"I'd say I'll lend you a hand, but you obviously have this under control," Duncan tried a compliment to calm the teens nerves. "You're good with them."_

_Richie shrugged and picked the baby up out of the play pen. He sniffed discreetly, then put the baby back down and put a squeaking duck within its reach. "I've had practice." He perched on the armrest of the couch with his feet on the cushions. "I'm just glad it's a light load."_

_"This is a light load?"_

_"Well, light-er," Richie amended. "Miguel and Jose got adopted last week." He craned his neck to check the kids outside then turned and did a check of those inside. "We're missing one," he mumbled to himself before checking again. Suddenly on alert, having come up short again he jumped to his feet. "Um..." he spun around in a little dance a panic and confusion. He grabbed a whistle off a book case and blew. _

_Well trained, like a modern, all male VonTrapp family, the boys got up and shuffled into the entry hall. The oldest all abandoned their homework and picked up the baby and toddlers as a small army marched in from the yard. There were eleven boys in the line. Richie looked down the line and his panic rose. _

_"Where the hell is Keefer?" he demanded._

_"I dunno," Charlie looked around in bewilderment. "I thought he was playing trucks?"_

_Richie crouched down at the far end of the line where the elementary age boys were standing. "Did he go play trucks with you guys?" With guilty heads already hanging they nodded in unison. "What happened?" Richie asked gently, though his clenched fists told Duncan he was anything but calm._

_"We didn't want him to," the boy who had plowed into Duncan confessed. "We told him to go away."_

_"Where did he go?"_

_"We don't know..."_

_Richie looked up at the boys who had been playing basketball. "Did you guys see anything?"_

_"Sorry, man. It was a pretty intense game."_

_Richie took a deep breath. "You guys," he pointed the ball players and homework doers. "Split up, take the walkies. You three," he pointed at the truck players. "Stairs." He took the baby from Charlie and led the toddlers back into the play area. With the baby on his hip and a walkie talkie in his free hand he looked at Duncan guardedly, yet pleadingly. "Can you watch them? They entertain themselves, really. Just make sure they don't do anything dumb."_

_"I've got 'em." Duncan turned his attention to the two boys playing with puppets on the floor. Richie disappeared out the backdoor with the baby to search for Keefer. _

_The search didn't last long. Keefer was found sulking in a tree down the block with a tear streaked face and running nose. As soon as the boy was found, life in the house returned to how it had been with the exception of three boys sitting on the stairs crying and in time out and a fourth licking his hurt feelings away with a Popsicle. _

_"Thanks." Richie sat back down on the armrest of the couch. "Hank should be back soon. We just got the checks and were out of a bunch of stuff."_

_"You handled that well." Duncan looked at the teen perched on the other end of the couch. He looked exactly like the thief that had broken into the store, but behaved like a completely different person. If Duncan didn't know better he would swear it was a different person. "You really are good with them." _

_"So what's the whole meeting about?" Richie changed subjects. "Me?"_

_"Apparently."_

_"You're not going to tell me?"_

_"I don't really know."_

_"You said it was about paying you back."_

_"Their words, not mine. Besides, you promised."_

_"I didn't promise; I offered," Richie said with a smirk. "Besides didn't your insurance cover the window?"_

_"Your social worker put this together, not me."_

_"You're interested, though."_

_"Curious," Duncan admitted. _

_"About me?" _

_"About the whole thing. How you got passed my supposedly state of the art alarm, why you did it in the first place, why a guy like you would do it ..."_

_Richie's face hardened. "What do you mean a guy like me?"_

_"You don't seem the type."_

_"How would you know?"_

_"You take responsibility seriously. You're focused on your school work. You have a good home."_

_"Ten minutes here and you think you know all that about me?" Richie scoffed at him. "Who are you Freud?"_

_"You're worried enough to do regular checks to make sure you know where every boy here is. You keep up with their academics, so you must care about your own. All the boys here look out for each other, you're obviously all close."_

_"Maybe I don't want to get my ass beat for loosing a kid, I'm forced to go to school everyday under threat of getting shipped to juvie, and maybe we're all each other's got."_

_"Or maybe you're not as tough as you like to pretend you are."_

_Richie regarded him carefully, then smirked. "I guess you'd know all about pretending, wouldn't you?"_

_Duncan couldn't help but smile. The kid had nerve. "I guess that's true."_

He woke up to the dark that had become his home. It had been a long time since he had dreamed about Richie. It had been a long time since he had dreamed at all. It felt good to have a little company. If even for a short time. Hopefully the boy was being smart. Hopefully he had matured enough to know how to keep himself out of trouble. Hopefully.

**. . . . . .**

Richie woke up early, his cell phone alarm vibrating softly on the headboard. He silenced the alarm and mentally prepared himself before getting up. Today was the day. He had his plan set, in place, and he was ready. He'd been training extra with Connor. Their day to day relationship was still strained and tense. But, somehow, when they trained it was like before. They were calm, easy and got along. It was like the workout took all the tension they had towards each other. But as soon as they were done, as soon as they set foot back into the apartment, it was gone. They barely spoke, Richie ate in his room if he came home at all, and anything could set off a fight.

Not wanting to start one of their piratically legendary fights, Richie set his plan into motion at 5:30 am. Connor would already be out on his morning jog so Richie could get up and get out before he returned. Richie got up and dressed. Loose fitting jeans, a sweatshirt and running shoes, all brand new, all unrecognizable to anyone who may have been following him. After getting dressed he checked his bag, sword, flashlight, lock pick, cash, and gun. He slid a woollen ski-cap down around his ears and looked at himself in the mirror. He looked like a high-schooler out to ditch class. Perfect.

He slipped out the side door and took the long way around the block before settling in at the window bar at the coffee shop across the street. Sipping his coffee and pretending to read a video game magazine, Richie watched the street looking for any signs of who had been following him. Just five minutes before he usually left for class Richie spotted someone lingering at the bus stop. The man had waited through an entire cycle of buses and kept his post. The longer Richie watched him the easier it was to see this was his mortal stalker. The man routinely looked up at Richie's bedroom window and eventually changed positions crossing the street and pretending to window shop the antique store. When the man went on the move again, Richie jumped from his stool and hurried out the door.

He followed the man without crossing the street for several blocks. When he got the chance, Richie darted though traffic stopped at a light. He smiled to himself at how easy it was to follow a person without being detected in New York City. No matter where you were there was a throng of people to hide it. Just as long as you kept your eyes on whomever you were following you were perfectly camouflaged. Richie easily tailed the man down onto a subway platform, on a train, then off again at the exact stop the Watchers had all told him about.

Once on the platform Richie slid into a line waiting for the payphone and watched the mortal from the corner of his eye. He recognized Sladkie instantly. He froze for a moment, his heart racing and adrenaline pumping. He watched as the mortal confessed that he had lost his assignment. Sladkie grabbed him roughly by the neck and forcibly turned to mortal in Richie's direction. The three stared at each other. Richie's racing heart stopped and his mouth went dry. For all of his planning and self assurance that he was ready, he felt the same way he did that night when he broke into the antique store and was held at sword point. Sladkie took one step toward him and Richie did the first sensible thing he had done since the whole thing started:

He ran for it.

Sladkie pushed the mortal away and ran after him. The mortal regained his balance, pulled out a cell phone, and dialed. "He did it," was all he said when the line was picked up.

**. . . . . .**

Richie woke up with the worst, throbbing, headache he'd ever had. It was blinding. He struggled to sit up, but realized his hands and feet were bound. He settled for laying flat on his back, instead, and brought his hands up to massage his pulsing temples. He moaned to himself and lay there, grateful for the pitch black of the room. Any light at all would have just made the pain worse. After a couple of minutes the pain began to subside and he was able to think about more than how much he wished he was still unconscious. He slowly became aware of someone else in the room with him. Someone who was not tied up, as they sounded to be able to move around freely.

"Who's there?" called out, his voice sounding pitiful to even his own ears. He struggled to sit up again and this time a phantom pair of hands helped him lean up against the wall. "Thanks," he mumbled, leaning his head back.

"Are you alright?" the voice that belonged to the hands asked as the hands pushed back the ski-cap and felt his face like they were checking for a fever.

Richie swallowed. Even as gruff and weary as it was, Richie knew that voice. The touch was eerily familiar from the days when feveres were a concern to him.

"Rich?" the voice asked as he picked at the ropes around Richie's wrists, then ankles.

"Mac?" Richie asked into the dark.

"It's me."

Richie felt a body lean up against he wall next to him. Duncan sounded tired and worn. The passing years had not been good to him. Richie could tell that without being able to see him. The hands that had once felt so strong and confident were smaller, weaker than he remembered.

"I knew it."

**. . . . . .**

Joe hung up the phone and grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair. As he walked past the bar he spared a glace at Mike, getting ready to open for the evening.

"He's done it," Joe said.

"The kid did exactly what you thought he would," Mike nodded at him. "I owe you ten dollars."

"Lets just hope the rest of the plan works as well as this half did."

Joe left the bar and hailed a taxi to the airport. When Richie had come in demanding answers he knew it would be easier to let Richie do what he was planning instead of cluing him in to the investigation. When Walker called in and told Joe that Richie had made his move there was no time to waste. If Richie was right and Duncan was still alive then they had a little time to prepare. If Richie was wrong and Duncan was dead, then Sladkie would waste no time doing to him what he had done to Duncan.

At the airport Joe bought a ticket on the next flight to New York and called Connor from a payphone in the terminal.

"Richie's missing," Joe said as soon as Rachel got Connor on the line. "He tried to confront Sladkie on his own."

"When?" Connor asked urgently.

"This morning. Richie followed a Watcher we had planted who was working with Sladkie."

"He was spotted?"

"Sladkie got him. Our guy doesn't know where he took him. But I've got people on it."

"If Sladkie doesn't do it, I'll kill him myself for being so foolish," Connor vowed.

"If he lives through this he'll have been the breakthrough that gets Sladkie out of the game," Joe reminded him. "He's one of the few we've taken a stand against." The loudspeaker announced the boarding call for Joe's flight. "I'll call you when I'm in town."

**. . . . . .**

Connor went into Richie's room and began to search. Richie's desk held nothing but the usual lesson plans, project schedules and class notes. Under his bed was a stash of magazines, racing and otherwise and dirty laundry. Nothing between his mattresses, nothing behind the headboard... Frowning Connor searched it all again. Surely Richie had left something behind as to how he had tracked Sladkie and made his plan. Going through Richie's school things a second time he found a spare notebook mixed in with his class notes. Inside was page after page of passwords, secret codes and covers that the Watchers operated under. There were notes about files he had searched and whatever information he had gotten from the group. In the margins were keywords like "files" and "XXX"

Connor sat and read through the pages, hoping to find something Richie or the Watchers had missed. A clue to where Sladkie was hiding out, where he waited while the mortal followed Richie around town... anything. Something to clue him in to where Richie might be, or if he was even still alive.

Rachel came in and stood in the doorway. "Can I help?" she asked.

"Get out of town," Connor told her. "If his vindetta doesn't stop here you could be in danger."

"What are you going to do?"

"What I can to stop him. He's fight with Duncan was fair and legal. It should have ended there. He's gone too far."

She walked over to Richie's bed and made up the sheets and fluffed the pillows. "Can you take him?"

"I don't know. I do know that if he could take my kinsman Richie doesn't stand a chance. Not yet."


	15. Chapter 15

Okay guys, here's the ending. Hope you enjoy. Just to let you know I won't be able to write for awhile. But I'm going to be around reading etc. My email is on my profile if you have any questions you want answers to!

Richie jumped when a hand touched his arm.

"Sorry," Duncan apologized.

"I'm fine," Richie said. "Just didn't see you."

"Your eyes will adjust."

"Yeah." The room was so dark Richie periodically had checked for a blindfold. He couldn't see a thing and didn't understand how Duncan could.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine."

They sat quietly again. After years of being apart, no contact, they couldn't think of anything to say to fill the time. They had sat for hours side by side in complete silence to accompany the darkness.

"You're in school?" Duncan tried for conversation. He could almost hear Richie rolling his eyes.

"Yes."

"I saw some pictures. When do you finish?"

"Just one."

"What's your major?"

"History with a minor in education."

He could hear the pride in Duncan's voice. "Good for you."

"I didn't get much of a choice."

"Are you training?"

"Everyday."

"You good?"

"I'm not useless."

**. . . . . .**

Connor read and reread every page of Richie's research. It seemed the boy had found everything except where Sladkie was hiding. He knew Joe was on the phone finding out everything he could. It seemed the Watchers had their favorites and now that two were missing because of the same man, they were willing to take some background action. Even the plant they had had working with Sladkie didn't have the crucial information. No one knew where he was hiding two capable immortals that he had somehow over powered. Well, one that had been overpowered and one that was too angry to be thinking clearly enough to stand a chance, Connor amended grimly. They had to be somewhere near the city, maybe even in the city. There were enough warehouses and abandoned building that with the right tools two people could be held right under every one's noses without anyone knowing.

Connor shook his head to clear his mind and focus. He took out the map Richie had been working with. The places Sladkie was known to go, along with contact points where all mapped out. Unfortunately, it was so easy to travel in the city there was no real zone of concentration to center in on. There was no real pattern. But there had to be something. Frowning, Connor started over. Richie must have missed something, and he was going to find it.

**. . . . . .**

The door flew open, letting in a flood of blinding light. Duncan and Richie instinctively turned their heads away, covering their eyes. Sladkie's boot falls were heavy on the bare concrete floor as he approached the pair. Richie tensed and jumped to his feet when he heard Sladkie stop in front of him.

"Stay away from me," he grumbled taking a few steps to the side. He still couldn't see well. His eyes and just started getting used to the complete blackness of the room, the light burned his dilated pupils.

Sladkie laughed. "You don't give the orders, boy." He reached out and grabbed Richie by the hair. Richie's hands flew up to push him away. "I do wish you would have left him tied up. I was hoping not to have to deal with this." Sladkie gripped one of Richie's wrists, and twisted, forcing his arm down and back pinning his hand between his shoulder blades.

"Let him go." Richie heard Duncan struggling to his feet.

"I got it, Mac." Richie still fought with his free hand, trying to make Sladkie at least let go of his hair. His eyes were getting used to the light.

He could see Duncan, or at least a skin covered skeleton with Duncan's voice, stand uneasily and position himself next to him. Distracted, Richie stopped fighting and just stood, staring. Duncan looked even worse than he had imagined. He could barely believe it was him. Even taking into account that Richie's memory may have exaggerated Duncan and his abilities, the man he knew and loved was not the man standing beside him. His hair was long and matted, his eyes and teeth yellowed. His skin hung from his body, pale, almost translucent. Despite his threat, Duncan swayed on his feet. It took most of his energy to stay upright. Richie blinked, bringing his focus back.

Sladkie laughed and pulled at Richie's hair, steering him toward the open door. "Useless old fool," he spat at Duncan. "I'll deal with you later." He pulled Richie again, turning him around, knocking him into Duncan. His balance already weak, Duncan fell. Sladkie laughed again.

Something in Richie snapped.

Richie's jaw clenched and his eyes grew dark. His free hand, that simply rested on top of the hand gripping his hair shot out and up. He felt his fingers push into Sladkie's eye sockets and began digging. Sladkie screamed and pulled away as Richie felt something soft give under his fingers. Now free, Richie turned for a real attack, fists clinched. There was no weapon in the room. Richie scanned twice just to be sure. Sladkie fell back with each kick and Richie pushed him further into the room and away from the door. Sladkie's hands covered his face and blood spilled out between his fingers. Richie had managed to gouge his eyes trying to get free.

"Mac, run!" Richie ordered, not looking away. He heard Duncan staggering for the door. He concentrated on Sladkie trying to think of the best way to temporarily kill him so they could find a sword to do it for real. He heard Duncan stumble in the doorway and opted for the easiest option. With a low kick he knocked Sladkie's feet out from under him. He jumped on top of the body and gripped Sladkie by the hair.

"Don't feel so good, does it?" he asked before slamming Sladkie's head into the floor. He felt Sladkie's body tense, then go completely limp in his hands, but he didn't stop. He kept pounding. Tears stung his eyes and all the anger and aggression of the past years came pouring out in a long string of expletives.

"Rich." He heard Duncan just over his right shoulder. Richie looked up. Duncan was standing beside him. "We'll deal with him later." Richie looked back down. The back of Sladkie's skull was flattened against the floor in a pool of blood and tissue debris.

"Sorry," he mumbled, getting up.

"Nothing I haven't wanted to do," Duncan admitted. "If I had gotten the chance..."

"What did he do to you? How did he keep you here?"

"We'll talk about it later. Right now I want you to get me out of here."

Richie stood and wiped his hands off on his jeans. "Okay, right..." He nodded. "I got 'cha."

Duncan leaned heavily on him as he helped him out. Outside the door was nothing but a short hallway leading to a long staircase. Richie closed the door behind them, turning the key that was still in the lock. They walked the few paces to the staircase and stood at the bottom, looking up.

"Maybe I should go first. In case there's someone up there," Richie hedged.

"You're right," Duncan nodded. "I'll just sit for a minute." Richie could tell Duncan was already tired. He sat down on the steps. When Richie started up, he stopped him. "Your shirt."

Richie looked down and saw the blood spatter across the front of his sweat shirt. He pulled it over his head and used the hood to wipe at his face and hands.

"Better?"

Duncan looked him over. In jeans, a white t-shirt advertising some clothing store, and a wool cap Richie looked like a strange grown-up version of the boy Duncan remembered. He knew Richie couldn't have changed that much. He was immortal, he didn't age anymore. But somehow, Duncan remembered him younger, softer, still a child.

"Mac, you okay?" Richie asked, concerned.

"You're clean."

"I'll be right back."

Richie jogged lightly up the stairs and out the door at the top. Duncan leaned against the wall to his right and closed his eyes. It was a strange reversal of roles. How many times had he rushed out into the night looking for Richie? How many times had he had to support Richie as they escaped from some jury-rigged prison? How many times had he scouted ahead to make sure it was safe? How many times did Connor have to stand in his place? And now Richie had taken over the part of rescuer.

Duncan took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves. Richie wasn't the helpless seventeen-year-old he had once been. He wasn't even the new immortal in training anymore. He was older, stronger, more capable. He could handle it.

When Richie came back down the stairs he gently shook Duncan awake.

"Hey, yeah, I'm still here," Richie said into the small phone at his ear. "I got him. We're heading up." He flipped the phone closed and slid it in his back pocket. "Connor's on his way," Richie explained, sliding his arm around Duncan's waist. "Told him we'd meet him out back."

"Where are we?" Duncan asked as Richie helped him up.

"Near my school. By the time we get up there you'll probably have some time to rest before he gets here."

"Rich?"

"Yeah, Mac?"

"Thanks for not giving up on me."

Richie smiled slightly. "I'm just stubborn."

**. . . . . .**

**EPILOGUE**

Richie didn't need to jump around with a cell phone at his ear to find his family. Built-in radar did have its advantages. Connor, Rachel, Joe, and most importantly, Duncan were waiting for him at the edge of the park where graduation had been held. With a little understanding of his circumstances and a lot of coffee fueled all-nighters Richie had graduated on time.

"I'm so proud of you," Duncan told him, when Richie leaned down to hug him in his wheelchair.

"Thanks."

Duncan had gained weight and strength over the last four months, but still tired out quickly. Using the wheelchair was still best for most outings. He had enough energy to pester Rachel about the way she ran Connor's store during the day and make sure Richie did his homework at night, but he still wasn't quite up to anything too physically draining. His face had filled out, he looked almost normal. For once, Richie wasn't being teased about his appetite because now, Duncan gave him a pretty good run for his money.

Everyone congratulated Richie in-between interruptions from classmates. Richie introduced his Uncle Russell, Uncle Joe, Aunt Rachel, and step-father Duncan. All his classmates were congratulated. As they walked down the street to his favorite Pizzeria, the one Rachel had taken him to years ago, Richie was glad that the small school didn't require caps and gowns, only suits and ties, for graduation.

He stuck close to Duncan, pushing his wheelchair through the pedestrian traffic down the sidewalk. Everyone grew quiet as they passed the intersection that lead to the newly-acquired distribution warehouse. Sladkie was still locked in the cellar as Duncan had been. One of these days they would deal with him. No one was in too much of a hurry. Since everyone was feeling vindictive, no one was there to be the voice of reason. Even the Watchers stepped in to hide the truth as Russell Nash bought the cover company that had owned the building before him. As far as Richie was concerned Sladkie could stay there just so long as his body didn't leave a decomposing smell in the building. Joe was trying to think of a way to approach the idea of letting the Watchers have him. With their own immortal they could answer a few questions that even immortals themselves didn't have the answer to.

"So what's the big news?" Joe asked once they had ordered and settled at their table.

Richie glared knowingly at Duncan, then Connor. "There may not be any news. I don't know if I'm going to do it."

"You're doing it," Connor told him.

"Doing what?" Joe asked.

"I got offered a job," Richie explained reluctantly.

Joe smiled broadly. "Really?"

"The teacher I used to volunteer with heard about an open position at a school out near her. She got me to send in my resume and stuff."

"What subject?"

"Integrated History and Geography. But I don't know if I'm going to take it. I can probably get a job in the city and stay here."

"He's going," Duncan said proudly. "He'll come home for holidays."

"Mac, I don't want to get into this discussion again," Richie said pointedly. "Can't we just have lunch?"

"He's going," Duncan said again quickly.

"Mac!"

"I'm done." Duncan sat back with a satisfied smile.

"You should do it," Joe agreed after a brief silence.

Richie groaned and slumped back in his chair. "Not you too, Dawson."

"It's a great opportunity. How far away is it?"

"Just outside DC."

"You could even come for weekends," Rachel pointed out.

"Or I could get a job here and help Mac," Richie said. "Besides, it's my decision."

Their pizzas arrived, but the conversation didn't stop.

"Richie, I don't want to hold you back," Mac said, serving himself a slice. "I'll be fine. Besides, I not going to be like this forever; in a few months I'll be good as new."

"You have to go out on your own sometime," Connor added. "You're ready."

"I've been trying to get away since I got here," Richie shot back bitterly. "Now that I want to stay you're kicking me out?"

"Rich." Duncan put his hand on Richie's arm. "Take the job."

Richie sighed and picked up his slice. "Fine," he mumbled. There really was no arguing with MacLeods, anyway.

**. . . . . .**

Two months later Richie was packed up and ready to move. Duncan had settled into Richie's apartment above the loft.

"Got it all?" Rachel asked as they loaded the last of his boxes into the moving van.

"I think so..." Richie mentally went down his checklist for the twenty-ninth time.

"We can ship it," Connor assured him, closing the hatch on the back of the rental truck and locking it.

"Or take it down ourselves," Duncan added. He was leaning against the alley wall, tired after just watching everyone load the truck. "It's not too far."

"You're not going anywhere for a while," Rachel scolded him. "Immortal or not, you still need to build up your strength."

"You need to get going," Connor told Richie, handing him the keys to the truck. "If you want to get in at a decent hour."

"You have a lot of unpacking to do." Rachel stepped forward and gave Richie a hug and kiss on the cheek. "Drive safely."

"Bye, Auntie Rachel," Richie said with big grin and a child's voice.

It was strange saying goodbye to Connor. Their relationship had improved drastically once their only real dispute had been settled. Connor had continued training him through the summer, now with Duncan's careful eye watching and appraising the whole time. It was the first time since Richie was mortal that they truly got along.

"See you around, kid."

Richie turned to Duncan. Duncan looked almost back to normal. Maybe even a little heavier than before his ordeal. He still tired out more easily than before, but anyone who didn't know who he had been before couldn't tell anything was wrong. He would be ready to start training again before too long.

"Guess I'll be seeing ya," Richie said with a shrug.

"You're going to do great, kid," Duncan said fondly, pulling him into a tight hug. "I really am proud of you."

"Thanks, Mac."

"Just don't go pissing anyone off for at least a while, okay?"

Richie laughed and pulled away. "I can't guarantee anything, but I'll try."

"Try hard," Duncan told him. "I'm serious, Rich. You have to learn to cut out the drama."

Richie rolled his eyes. "Mac. I don't do it on purpose."

Duncan smiled. "I know. I have to get onto you about something."

He fought it, but Richie smiled. "Great."

"Richie, you really do need to get moving," Connor reminded him.

"Yeah, I know."

There was another quick round of goodbyes, then Richie got in the truck. He waved before slowly merging into the busy New York City traffic and heading to I-95S. His cellphone rang not three blocks from the apartment.

"Call me when you get there," Duncan reminded him when he answered.

"Mac, it's barely a five hour drive."

"Just call me," Duncan repeated before hanging up.

Richie smiled to himself and tossed the phone back down on the seat next to him. Some things never changed.


End file.
